


dog teeth || countryhumans

by OOFOOFx3



Category: Geography (Anthropomorphic)
Genre: Drowning, Gen, Genderqueer Character, M/M, Murder, Other, Sexism, Transgender, Transphobia, theyre very talent, uhhh a friend helped me write this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:42:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 33,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29549481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OOFOOFx3/pseuds/OOFOOFx3
Summary: the misadventures of a wolf in sheep's clothing and all who fall for him.
Relationships: Peru/United States (Anthropomorphic), Ukraine & United States (Anthropomorphic)
Kudos: 4





	1. one

The 1940's. Hell on earth. Years of nothing but war and death had plagued the earth, washing over it like a tidal wave of tragedy and flooding everyone's thoughts and minds. And when I say everyone, I mean everyone. It was a goddamn world war, of course everyone knew. It worried mothers of soldiers sick, knowing that their sons may never come home. It worried the leaders of nations, hoping to god that they hold on for another day so that they can try to turn it all around. It worried the children and their siblings, wondering if things would ever be the same. But most importantly, it worried the nations themselves. They were scared of losing, of letting their people be hurt despite how hard they fought to keep them safe.

Soon enough, though, the bombing of one harbor had flipped the whole war upside down. And then, the global superpower called the United States of America had awoken like a sleeping giant. With an economic boom at his heels and a new spark of rage the world had never seen before in his eyes, he was ready to finally play his part within this wretched war. Within ten years, he had manufactured a bomb so powerful that people still fear its destructive path today, and had used it to defeat his enemy. But he had yet to vanquish this enemy of his.

The tall superpower shifted his weight, roughly tossing the heavy burlap sack against a large metal pole. His movements were savage and harsh, but almost effortless in their cruelty and anger. He didn't need to strain a single muscle to be this heartless with what he had dragged down to the darkest depths of this wretched metal warehouse he had.

Imperial Japan awoke with a start. His eyes flickered open, struggling to adjust to the pitch black darkness that was the room he was trapped in. Blankets upon blankets of darkness laid upon him, smothering the man in this— this feeling of dread. Something, no, someone, was coming to hurt him.

Who? Imperial Japan had a plethora of enemies. God fucking knew.

Imperial Japan sat upright. Something rough bound tight, tight, tight around his wrists and he couldn't stand it. He struggled against the rope, wringing his hands and twisting his wrists in every which way.

The room was silent. Empty. Dark. It held no happy emotions or any hope for escape, no positivity and no light at the end of the tunnel. There certainly was not, especially if the room was this dark.

But yet, the darkness also wasn't so empty. Within the corner of the room, if one were to strain their eyes, was the unmistakably bright oceanic blue and catlike eyes that belonged to only one country. Of course, the Japanese man who was bound to a pole in the middle of the room wouldn't be able to tell, especially since the blindfold over his eyes was obscuring his view. And the room wasn't all that dark at all. It was dimly lit with a warm colored light in one area in the room, the space where Imperial Japan was sitting.

A disappointed tutting came from somewhere in the corner of the place.

"I'd quit it, if I were you." A low, deeply threatening American-accented voice growled. "It'd be a shame to cut your wrists open and bleed out."

"Fuck you! I'm gonna fucking kill you!" Imperial Japan seethed at this voice he immediately recognized. He spat in whatever direction, hoping to spit on the stupid fucker who abducted him.

Growing more and more livid by the minute, the impetuous man began kicking his legs like an angry donkey, flailing about. He continued fucking with the ropes around his wrists. Somewhere in the fray his blindfold slipped down to his nose, allowing him to see America's ugly face.

The words that the Japanese man had spat were nothing but white noise to the much larger male, going in through one ear and out through the other. He didn't care too much for empty threats and bluffs, nor did he take them to heart. He simply brushed them off.

"Mhm. Sure." America growled, lifting up his hand to check his nails and cuticles with a certain boredom in those heartless and cruel eyes.

He looked up for a moment when he heard Imperial Japan spit, which had come nowhere close to him, but then went back to checking his nails and waiting for him to finish. The minute he saw the white blindfold fly off of his face was the very minute that America stopped checking his nails like a high school girl and faced his captive, looking him up and down once before donning a sickeningly wide grin. His teeth glinted in the low light setting, shiny and slick with saliva but triangular and razor sharp like that of a shark's. Or, better yet, Reich's.

"When I get out of here— And you can bet your fat ass I will —I'm going to... I'm going to..."

Imperial Japan bit back a sob.

"I'm going to send my men for you! And! And..."

Imperial Japan wasn't stupid. He knew resistance would prove futile. Fighting America, whether in hand-to-hand combat or with words, would be hell. The overpowered country had the world by a string. If America said he wanted it, and then he had it. And if America wanted Imperial Japan beaten, hanged and blood slunk, then that was going to happen.

"...Don't hurt me."

This was rather uncharacteristic of Imperial Japan. Usually, if the man had to go down, he'd go down kicking and screaming. It was even his motto: "If I'm to go, I go down swinging."

America could only raise his eyebrows at that. The grin he had on his face never melted away, always letting him know and rubbing it into his wounds that America had won. He had won and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. He could struggle and kick and scream all he'd like, but he'd seldom have any satisfaction of winning in his last hours of living. America knew it well. Each sob the Japanese man he'd tied up tried to swallow down was another little boost to that ego of his.

He didn't just have the world on a string, he had the world tied to his hands in a way that he could puppeteer it like a goddamn marionette. Whatever he wanted, he would get. If he wanted blood, then that is what he would get. If he wanted to consume human ribs or to feast on the soft meat of innocent children — something he would do, according to his enemies — then he could fucking do it. Nobody could stop him. He would get off scot free.

America could only scoff. "Why shouldn't I?"

"What did I ever fucking do to you?!!"

This Imperial Japan knew. Again, he wasn't stupid. Imperial Japan didn't have to regress far into his thoughts to remember all he did to the man in front of him.

There were close to a million words in the english language, and yet not one coherent sentence you could string together using them would be descriptive enough to express the unshakeable fear that loomed above Imperial Japan. He was Atlas with the world on his shoulders, only it wasn't the world, it was the knowledge that he was not going to make it out of this room alive. The next and final place his body would see would probably be somewhere in the dirt. So, figurative flashlight in hand, Imperial Japan's mind was determined to describe the fear that not even the greatest poets could begin to describe.

Imperial Japan didn't know many English words to describe fear. Sesuji ga kooru, he would call it in his mother tongue. It didn't have a direct English translation, but it was along the lines of "spine-tingling".

America's mockingly intimidating grin faltered for just a moment, barely even a second, at the Japanese man's words. Those feline-esque slits for pupils he had widened just a little, nearly giving away an emotion that the male had hoped so badly to suppress. Pain.

In the snap of a second, it was gone. His pupils were back to heartless slits, his thawed blue eyes icing over with the sheer frigidity that had overtaken him in the years of war. The ice in his veins seemed to grow colder again as fury, red hot, fiery hatred and anger burst to life in his chest again. It was so incredibly strong that his angry expression melted and morphed into one that was close to nothing but pure fucking rage. That kind hearted, loving, welcoming America that everyone said he was? Gone. Gone with the wind and without a whisper of a goodbye. A laugh bubbled up from his chest as he flashed his teeth. That laugh became maniacal within seconds.

"Are you shitting me right now? What did you do to deserve this? Oh my god, you can't be sincere." America barked out, pacing a small area that was still within the shadows of the room. "Do you seriously not remember?"

America reached into his pocket as he turned towards Imperial Japan, beginning to step towards him at a threateningly slow pace. As he got closer, he pulled out what appeared to be an oddly shaped metal thing with a clip. Upon pressing a button, a blade popped out from it with a sharp metallic shiiiing! America stopped in front of Japan, pressing the tip of the blade to his throat in a quick motion. "Then allow me to jog your memory."

Imperial Japan fucking pissed his pants in sheer terror as the blade licked at his throat. Now he was overcome with not only terror and resentment but also humiliation. Delightful.

One thing Imperial Japan knew was that when you turned fifty, you weren't just fifty. You were fifty, forty-nine, forty-eight, and so forth. All the way to zero. When you needed to be strong and independent, you were fifty. When you needed to party, you were twenty. When you needed to cry in your mother's arms and piss yourself, you were three. Imperial Japan was three right now.

He must've been severely dehydrated, because Moses on a pogo stick, his pee sure reeked. How long had he been knocked out? He hadn't a clue. He supposed it didn't matter, since soon he was going to be shoved into a trash bag, loaded into a trunk, and then thrown into a shallow grave.

America looked down to the male's soiled pants with a wrinkled nose and curled lip.

"Shoulda listened to that sunovabitch when he said to cut the damn bladder open." He snarled lowly to himself, gripping the handle of the switchblade tighter and pressing it into his delicate throat skin more. He felt like he was poking a water balloon with a needle, coming so close to spilling his blood from the arteries that settled just below his jaw and above his neck bone.

"For starters, you hurt a territory of mine." America's unforgiving glare continued to pierce Imperial Japan's soul through his eyes. "My territories are not just my property and my servants, they're my goddamn children. And I'm sure you know what happens when you attack a mother bear's cubs."

America continued on.

"Then, you had the balls to attack my baby, my sweet baby girl Hawa'i. Or... for you, it would be Hawaii. You sank my oil ships, you killed my civilians, and you were even awarding me a peace prize!" he pressed more. Any more pressure would spill Imperial Japan's blood and make him choke. "Then you fight me for control of my child, Midway, and you hurt the citizens of the Philippines." "Now tell me, now do you remember?"

"F... Fuck you."

"I'll pass." America spat. "I don't need to catch whatever you got from harassing those poor women in Manila."

Imperial Japan spoke through gritted teeth. "Go ahead, kill me. Do whatever you want. J-Just..."

Imperial Japan stuttered. Shit.

"...Just know that whatever you do to me, my men will find a way to do to you. And not even death will wife you in the end, you sick bastard."

"Sure." America grinned. "After I give myself a nice little snack before that. Fighting on an empty stomach is sickeningly boring."

The movements were too quick to register, but one second the knife was against Imperial Japan's neck, and then next it had been plunged into his gut and dragged down to his waist. It was so quick that not even any of the blood was able to splatter onto America's face. This clever bastard knew exactly how to cut deep enough to reach in, but not to kill.

"Oh, and, I'm sure that someone will. In fact, I even know who they are." America grinned as he reached into the pocket of his army coat. He pulled out a bottle of foggy, pale yellow liquid that was attached to a spray bottle. "You know him. Perú."

He sprayed some of the liquid onto the area of the wound. Unlucky for Japan, it was a mix of salt and lemon juice.

Imperial Japan let out a cry of agony. Remember when he said no words could describe his fear? It was happening again, but this time it was pain. Blood gushed out his wound, pouring onto the already dirtied concrete floor. The combined scent of iron and lemon in the air made Imperial Japan even sicker. Tears came running down his face as a violent sob wracked his hunched frame.

"I've brought you here so you could be punished for your actions. But I've also locked you down here to prevent you from touching, or even breathing in the same direction as my darling." America tossed the bottle aside as he let a maliciously hungry grin spread across his face. "And you know damn well that I've succeeded in doing so."

At that, it was a night full of nothing but pain for Imperial Japan, and a nice dinner for America.

* * *

"Ame!" Peru squawked, clambering off the couch to go give his mans a bear hug. The short man's knit hat nearly flew off his head as he darted over to America, and he stopped for a moment to correct its position. Then he made another noise and engulfed his lover into a warm, loving embrace.

"I missed you! It's been so quiet around here without you! Nobody to—" he paused. "You smell like lemon."

America's ears were graced by the sound of his lover's cry of joy, so sweet and gentle like that of a small songbird's melody. Immediately, his neutral expression became this warm and gushy smile, love and warmth glinting in his blue eyes as he bent down to be at his level.

"Hello, Perú." The American brute greeted him so gently, as if raising his voice just the slightest bit would shatter him like glass.

He let him adjust himself for a moment, opening his arms to the smaller male and engulfing him into a hug that pressed him close to his chest. Those small arms that wrapped around his ribs in such a trusting, loving way made America's insides flutter with glee. Fuck. Shit. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

"I do?" America feigned surprise. "Is it good or bad? Because it might be the new soap I got."

"Oh, no, I didn't mean to— It's good! I like lemon. Reminds me of my mother's kitchen!" Perú's thick accent was like butter on a roll, smooth and silky. He beamed up at America, eyes wide and gleaming with nothing but pure joy.

Oh, how he loved his boyfriend. America had to be the love of his life. Without America, there was no Perú.

"Wanna cuddle and watch something? I've missed you so much..."

America's small internal panic was silenced quite quickly by his boyfriend's double take, especially when he noted it was a nice scent. He nearly sighed with relief, his slitted pupils once more widening and becoming calmer as he deflated just a little. He delivered a gentle squeeze to Perú's fragile but supple ribs, feeling him and taking in how he was such a small being compared to him. It sent some sort of pleasant, restless feeling into his stomach.

"Oh, good." He hummed. "I'm glad you like it."

He loved this boy so much. He couldn't even put it into words exactly how much he loved him. America would rip the world in two if it meant that Perú wanted it. This gentle little being right here deserved all of his love and affection, and he was willing to give it over unprompted.

"Of course, darling." America purred, like a large tiger or beast to a hare. "I'm sorry I kept you waiting, I hope you weren't too lonely while I was gone?"

"It's fine," Perú took the massive lad by his hand and practically dragged him to the couch. As he plopped onto the soft cushion of the couch, he looked up at America and raised a brow. "Where were you, anyway?"

Perú eyed his lover up and down, taking him all in. What a privilege it was to love America, a great honor to be his.

However, Perú had long suspected something was up. America would come home late often without a believable explanation. Each time this happened, Perú would let him go without so much of a concern, but lately, he couldn't shake the fear that America was having an affair.

America allowed himself to be led to the couch, well, more like dragged, watching his small boyfriend move him to the living space to lie down and cuddle on the couch. He knew damn well that Perú was a loyal boy, more so than many other people he knew, and he was more than glad to have him closer than he would allow any other country. Oh, his sweet little Perú, his adorable, lovable, incredibly naïve Perú... Oh how his heart would break if he found out what America does.

"I was out at a work function." America lied softly, acting like he was explaining himself as Perú sat himself down onto the couch. "Well, more like I was dragged into it. Coworkers wouldn't leave me the hell alone about getting to know each other, and I couldn't really leave for a little while. I'm sorry I got held up."

The much larger male noticed how his boyfriend was looking him up and down, and he took it as an opportunity.

"Like what you see?" He teased, placing a hand on his hip. "You know, it's all yours."

Perú made a series of noises that could only be described as a keyboard smash. His cheeks flushed even redder as he buried his face in his hands. He then leapt onto America's lap, nuzzling his face into the man's neck. He planted little kisses along the shelf of his jaw, occasionally nibbling at the skin along the way.

"Shut up! I'll eat you alive!"

Oh, the irony.

America chuckled softly at his boyfriend's flustered reaction, a grin making its way onto his face as he watched him hide his face from view. America gave a soft oof from being jumped on, leaning back on the couch while sighing and chuckling. Ah, there was never a bland moment with his small boyfriend. Especially— oooh, that felt nice. The much larger brute melted into Perú's affection almost immediately, his large and muscular body becoming pliant within his hold as he felt those soft little kisses and nibbles along his jaw. A low and breathy groan of satisfaction sounded from the brute.

America gave him a grin that flashed his sharp teeth just a little. "Not if I get you first."

"Oh? Is that a challenge?" Perú snickered, biting down a little harder, this time on his neck. He sucked on the flesh before pulling away to admire the hickey he left. "Wait, I'm sorry, I should've asked first—"

"You bet, my little morsel." America purred, watching him with curious eyes as he moved from his jaw to the soft skin and flesh of his neck. Normally he'd move anyone who wasn't him away from that area, but he trusts Perú a whole hell of a lot. He wouldn't stab him in the throat. A shivering chill of some gentle pleasure crawled up his spine, and this time a more firm noise of pleasure slipped from him.

"Careful, sweetie, don't start something you can't finish." He could only grin at him panicking slightly due to the importance of consent they had stressed earlier. "And hush, it's fine, I enjoyed it."

"Oh, okay! Do... Do you want to, uhm. Uh..."

Perú blushed furiously. His face was so red he could give Vietnam a run for his money.

"We don't have to! It's fine if we don't— I know we've never..."

Perú gay panicked.

America could only chuckle at his boyfriend's embarrassment, watching as he fussed over his words and struggled to get out what he wanted to say. The best word to describe it was utterly adorable. His boyfriend was adorable as all hell.

"Only if you're okay with it." America kept his voice very low and soft, close to a purr and a croon but smoother and so much kinder.

"God, yes. Can I be frank with you?"

America raised an eyebrow. "Mhm, go on."

"I've wanted to... For a while. I've never trusted someone so much. You're— You're literally the light at the end of the tunnel for me."

America stopped for a minute. His boyfriend really was telling him that he was all he needed. Was... Was he being serious? He hoped to god that he was. He hoped that he meant every word he just spoke and he hoped to the lord on high that he wasn't dreaming.

America's grin softened to a much gentler, loving smile, as he squeezed Perú's waist gently. "That's.. quite a lot of meaning you've got there. I'll be sure to make it worth your while, my love."

* * *

"Saludos!" Perú clinks his shot glass against Costa Rica's, then brings it to his lips to swallow the liquid inside. It burned in the best way as it shot down his throat. It was almost like someone shoved a flamethrower into his mouth and fired away, except not painful. Perú wouldn't be drinking if it hurt. He hated pain and avoided it at all costs.

Perú promised America he wouldn't drink too much, since Perú was a lightweight and very sensitive to alcohol. Perú was a responsible drinker, but when hanging around good friends, it was too easy to go overboard and end up sick.

"So what did you want to talk about?" Perú wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smacking his lips.

The good natured and heavyweight drinker clinked her glass to the other's, smiling softly and downing the alcohol with ease. It burned, sure, but it was a pleasant burning. She liked the burn. It made her feel alive, like the night was still young and she was still able to party hard and worry about the cops later.

Setting her glass down onto the table, she reached for the bottle again and filled her glass with more of the tequila. It wasn't her favorite, Mexico didn't make the best alcohol, but whatever.

"Oh, yeah. That." she downed the glass. "You ever notice that America acts a little odd?"

"No? He's so sweet. So so so sweet... He gives the best kisses and he's such a good cuddler! He's gentle and soft-spoken, but he can step up when he needs to, like at meetings and someone's fucking with him. The only thing I've ever noticed about him is that he sure has a short fuse. What a temper he has! He's never gotten mad at me before, though. Actually— Once I ate the noodles in the fridge when he asked me not to and he got really mad. But it wasn't for long! And he didn't hit me or anything, just raised his voice, realized what he was doing, then walked away!" Perú froze. "Oh, I'm rambling, aren't I? I'm so sorry..."

He quickly downed another shot.

"No, no, dude, it's fine." Costa Rica waved off his apology. She downed another shot of alcohol, wincing at the slight buildup of intensity from the burn. She didn't mind, though. It was all fine.

"That's good. But have you noticed how he acts around other people?" She urged. "Does he stay out late and come home at night a lot?"

"Well, yeah..." Perú blinked. "I've thought about him having an affair— Is that what's going on? God, please don't tell me that!"

"Oh honey," Costa Rica sighed, filling her glass once more and downing it. "It is so much worse than that."

"Oh, you're scaring me. What is it? Tell me, please."

"What do wolves and beasts do?"

Odd question to ask.

"...Eat people?"

"Bingo." Costa gave him a finger gun and clicked her tongue. "Now, what if I told you that America is just like those beasts and wolves?"

"That's not funny, Costa Rica!" Perú frowned. "You scared me!"

"I'm not joking," Her stern tone and serious facial expression said it all. She really wasn't joking. "I'm being serious here."

Perú froze for the second time that night. "No."

"America is a fucking man-eater, Perú." Costa hissed. "Look at his teeth. It says it all. His eyes are like that of a beast's, he's meant to hunt people."

Perú bit back a sob. "No! Tell me it's not true!"

"Does he often stare at people with hatred? Does he come home smelling oddly of scents that are strong or acidic?" She continued to interrogate him. "Face it, Perú, he's not what you think he is."

Perú broke down crying, burying his face in his hand. He grabbed his coat off the back of his chair, tugged it over himself. "I... I have to go."

He fled.

Costa Rica only sighed, filling her glass with more tequila and downing another shot. If that boy goes to confront America, he'll get eaten alive. At least she tried to warn him.

* * *

Perú unlocked the door with shaky hands, nearly dropping the key several times as he jammed it into the tiny slot. He swung the door open with a creak, shedded his coat to hang it on the rack, then wiped his tear-stained face.

From his lounging position on the couch, the American brute looked up from the TV to eye the door with some sort of anxiousness as he heard the key turn in the door, and the small metallic clicking of the lock unlocking. Almost immediately, America knew who it was. He lifted himself from his position on the couch, shutting off the TV so he could pay better attention to his boyfriend.

"Perú?" America called, his voice gentle even when it was raised. "You're back early. Did something happen?"

Perú's head jerked up to shoot America a dirty look. Boy, was he pissed. "You! You monster!"

He immediately broke down again. He collapsed against the door, slid to the ground with his arms around himself and started rocking himself back and forth whilst sobbing violently.

America recoiled at Perú's sudden snap, his eyes widening as he took a step back from the boy and blinked. What happened for him to call him a monster? What happened?

"W-What?" America's voice sounded slightly strained. His shock didn't fade either when his boyfriend's legs had given out as he slid down the door to kneel on the floor. His violent, pained sobs sent a knife into America's chest and kept hammering it in deeper. It wasn't long before he had begun to get closer, sympathy and slight pain in his eyes. "Perú? Baby? What's wrong?"

"Don't ever call me that again! You know what you did!" Perú seethed between heaving cries. Sobs wracked his little body, his stomach rising and falling rapidly. "Those nights you stay out late— I thought you were having an affair, but no! You... You... You're a monster! A fucking cannibal!"

Perú thought his eyes were going to pop out of his skull. He ran his hands through his hair, then gave it a sharp tug. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe— Fuck, he was hyperventilating. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fu

America recoiled once more, that knife that was stabbed into his chest pushing deeper. Pain was not a feeling he knew too well, but he was damn sure that he didn't like it. The large brute felt helpless at that moment, wanting to get closer to his boyfriend and knowing well that his smaller partner didn't want him to be closer. He was in pain and he wanted to take that pain away.

Suddenly, he felt like his heart stopped.

How the fuck did he know? Who the hell told him? All the questions he wanted to ask, and yet the only thing he did was get closer to him. He was trying to comfort him, because his panicking was killing him.

Perú let out a blood-curdling shriek. It was like someone tore out his stomach, tied it in a fat knot, then shoved it back inside. He raised his fist and began punching his own head, trying to wake himself from this nightmare. His boyfriend couldn't be a murderer, absolutely not. Not the love of his life.

America's eyes widened with nothing but fear, for himself and for Perú. The shriek rattled his senses quite a bit and twisted his stomach into knots, but the minute that Perú began to punch his head was the minute that America stopped playing gentle. The brute suddenly made a dive for his boyfriend, grasping at his wrists very suddenly and harshly to prevent him from doing any harm to himself. That was the last thing that America needed to feel he was responsible for.

Perú screamed bloody murder. Surely the neighbors had to have heard by now. He wriggled against America, suddenly struck with the terrifying thought that America was going to kill him, too.

"You're fucking— Are you gonna kill me, too?!? Fucking do it! Fucking kill me!"

Again, the screams. They were grating and horrible, but they also called over the neighbors and sometimes even the cops. Cops were never a good sign. America gripped his wrists tighter to combat his struggles to get free, practically trapping him in the corner between the wall and the doorway. He'd had him trapped, and he was looming over him like some sort of hungry wolf. A wolf staring down at the helpless lamb.

America only narrowed his eyes. "If you keep pushing, I will."

His voice was cold and cruel. Harsh. It was never a voice he had used on Perú before, but there's a first time for everything.

Perú went silent, with the exception of each rapid and shallow breath with the occasional gasp. "A... Ame?"

Remember when Imperial Japan couldn't describe his fear? Yeah, well, that again. But Perú. His heart practically stopped.

The only noise that could be heard was his shallow breathing, but also America's slow and very obviously steadied breaths. He was trying to control himself, to reign in his demons before his boyfriend got hurt by them. He didn't want to have to show him this side of himself. He thought he could shelter him from it. He thought he could escape it.

But no.

America closed his eyes as he inhaled slowly, opening them up again as he exhaled and stared down his lover once more. "Yes?"

His low, barely controlled voice had growled, but this time his voice wasn't quite as harsh.

"...You're hurting me," Perú's eyes flickered to his wrist, which was clenched too tightly in America's iron grip.

Above all things, Perú felt betrayed. He had put all his faith and energy into his relationship with the man on top of him, but it was all for nothing. Nothing at all.

America didn't listen at first, his tight grip on Perú's wrists never letting loose for that minute that America seemed to be ignoring him. His blue eyes stared back into Perú's, unreadable and intimidating.

However, after that painstaking minute, he'd loosened his grip on his wrists, still watching him with a hawklike gaze in case he tried anything again.

"Please, get off of me... I won't tell anyone, I promise. Just— Please, please don't hurt me."

Perú was fucking crushed. This man, the man he loved most, had lied to him these past few years. These years— Perú thought they were the best of his life, and that he was going to marry the man who made them so great. But no.

"And if you kill me, I know you won't be able to live with it. Don't do that to yourself."

"What makes you think I would hurt you?"

But, sure enough, America backed off. Just a few steps, but he'd backed off and let the smaller male have his space. He was going to trust him on his promise to not tell a soul, but the slightest wind of him telling someone and America would not be happy. He would trust him this once.

We'll see if it lasts.

Perú went fucking super Sonic speed for the couch.

"You can take the bedroom. I'm sleeping here tonight."

Yikes.

"Suit yourself."

Bigger yikes.

America only moved to go back up the stairs to the bedroom they used to share, not bothering to exchange another word with his partner, or what used to be him. Now he has a feeling that they'll never be that close again. As much as it hurt, it wasn't up to him.

The next few nights, Perú slept on the couch. Despite how emotionally exhausted he was, his body was restless. He tossed and turned like a rotisserie chicken on a pole above a fire, unable to get any shut-eye. On the rare occasion he got any sleep, his rest was plagued by vivid nightmares. Nightmares about America doing terrible, unspeakable things to him. What would happen if Perú reported it? He'd be a dead man. Even worse, what would happen if he didn't? The brute would go on to kill someone else. And then another after that. And then another.

The next few nights, America obviously slept in the bed they used to share. Now he just calls it his bed. He doesn't like it at all, and sometimes he wishes that he was forced to take the couch instead, because laying there while remembering all their fond memories together was a horrid thing. It ate away at his insides and left him an aching, empty man. He wasn't even the slightest bit human anymore. He was a dead man walking, a hungry corpse with the gift — curse, actually, — of walking. Of feeling. Of thinking.

Of remembering.

And where did all this pain originate from? Perú's goddamn friend. She told him. She told him everything, and she ruined it all. That bitch will fucking pay.

One night, Perú had enough. He marched up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. He then approached the bedroom door. Without knocking, he turned the knob and entered the room.

Deep breaths, Perú. Deep breaths.

He climbed into bed with the man he feared the most.

"Buenas noches," he said, like he used to say to America every night, only this time his voice was shaking like a leaf barely clinging onto a branch in the wind. Then he turned away from Ame and quickly drifted off into a light, dreamless sleep.

A low, deep sigh rushed from the lungs of the brute, whose back faced away from the much smaller boy and whose body was lying on the side of the bed that was furthest from the door. It was pretty clear that he was faking sleep. His breaths were occasionally uneven and he moved like he wanted to roll over.

America didn't say anything to him. If he did, he would probably make him upset. Instead, he simply ignored him and didn't move from his side of the bed, letting Perú climb in under the covers, if he'd like.

He could tell that Perú was scared. He wasn't going to push anything or try anything, because that would only make it worse. Maybe he would die in his sleep time. It would be preferable.

Perú woke up repeatedly throughout the night to check if he hadn't been eaten alive yet, as you do when you live with a cannibalistic murderer.

Luckily, his limbs were all still attached to his body by the time his alarm went off. He slapped the off button on the screech machine, then dared to look over at America. Instantly regretting it, he shot out of bed and darted out of the room without even changing clothes.

America wasn't too sure about what Perú was worried about, since he had never made a single move that would suggest that he would try to eat him. But whatever. He can't change how Perú feels. He can only change how he himself acts.

It was morning when he heard the horrid noise of an alarm, waking him up and supposedly Perú up with the terrible noise. America just growled and put his pillow over his head, not bothering to listen to Perú have a panic attack and run away.

Perú raced into the living room, suddenly fully engulfed in terror. His heart rate picked up, thumping so wildly he could hear it roaring in his ears. His breaths were short and shallow, and his thoughts raced through his mind at breakneck speed. He needed some fresh air.

Unwilling to step outside into the chilly early morning air, he opened a window and took in a deep huff before slowly letting out. The air was wet— It had rained all night last night, as if the Heavens were crying for the couple held together by nothing but a string. It was like the Heavens were sorry. Perú hoped they were. (haha reference)

America, like usual, was wallowing in a pit of emptiness. Ever since Perú went out with that bitch of a friend, everything he ever lived for was taken from him. It was ripped from his hands, even when he had taken so many precautions and treated Perú so gently, it still ended up like this. With him hating himself and Perú hating him too. Hating would be better than fearing, because that's really what Perú felt.

America didn't even want to get up. He felt like he didn't have the energy, emotionally or physically. He hadn't been eating right for his body size, mostly because he ate to distract himself. He never ate too much, though. Cause he was usually drinking along with it.

Perú stood at the window for a while, taking in each deep breath with a tremble. He wouldn't tell. If he truly loved America, he would keep his promise. But was America even worth loving? He was a monster— A beast with an unquenchable thirst for blood.

No, he wouldn't think about his lover like that. He had every right to be afraid, but that didn't mean he had to hate him. Hating him wouldn't make him suck any less, so he may as well love.

But how could he love a monster?

America wanted to rip that bitch named Costa Rica into two pieces. No. Eight pieces. He wanted to shred her into unrecognizable pieces of flesh and stains of blood to the point where the police can't even figure out who she is. He wants her to feel his pain and to understand what the hell she ruined for him.

But yet, he didn't get up. He didn't move from his spot, he didn't try to roll over, he didn't do anything. He just laid there, empty. Without a purpose. Hollow and tired, and hungry too. That didn't matter, he'd eat later. It wasn't worth confronting Perú.

Perú then made his way to the kitchen. He reached into the fridge, pondered for a moment, then pulled out two eggs. He turned around to rummage through a cabinet to grab a bowl. He set the bowl on the counter with a gentle thunk! and then cracked both eggs into it.

Perú rummaged through the cabinet again, hoping to whatever God there was that he wasn't making too much noise, and found a pot. He filled it with water from the kitchen sink, set it on the stove, and brought the water to a boil. As it reached boiling point, he stirred it with a wooden spoon and dropped the eggs in.

Once they finished cooking, which didn't take long, he scooped them up and plopped them onto a plate. Voila! Poached eggs.

Now the sound of cooking food was taunting him. He knew that Perú was making it, since he was the only other one in the house, but if he went out there he would only spook him. So in all reality, he had to just wait until Perú was gone, and then he could go get himself something to eat.

The universe was toying with him. Teasing him. He hated it. He wanted to just scream and destroy everything, but he knew he couldn't. He was only partly human, after all. The rest of him was just lost in time to whatever made him a flesh-eating beast.

Perú took the plate with both shaking hands, fearing that if he held it in only one he'd drop it. He turned to face the stairs. Up. Just go up. You don't even have to say anything to him, Perú.

Up the steps he went, one by one, each one harder to climb than the last. By the time he got to the door he had to have been a living vibrator, shaking so violently the plate rattled in his hands. He knocked three times, opened the door, then entered.

Perú set the plate on the nightstand.

America faced away from where Perú could see him, but it didn't mean that he didn't know it was him. He could hear the doorknob shaking as he tried to open the door, and he could hear his stuttered and shaky breaths.

Yep. Definitely Perú.

He let him settle into bed, silent and unmoving, before getting up from the bed and leaving the boy to sleep in the bed by himself.

Meanwhile, America descended the stairs, moving to go sleep on the couch instead.

Perú just laid there for a moment in shock. Did he just— Oh, my fucking God. Perú wanted better than this. He wanted better than a cannibalistic murderer who ignored him. He wanted— no, deserved —so many steps up from this. Perú picked up the pillow, buried his face in it, then bawled himself back to sleep.

America flopped onto the couch and rested his head on one of the pillows. He was sick of the pain but he knew that the more he hurt Perú, the worse it would get.

Maybe he should just fucking die.

No, that's the coward's way out. He should just leave. He was only causing him pain, anyway.

What if he did leave?

Perú awoke sometime past ten am, three hours later than he usually slept. His face was so flushed and raw from sobbing so violently the previous night that it burned to blink and move his mouth. He grumbled, clambering out of bed.

The house was quiet. It normally was quiet after that fateful day, after the day that changed them both, for the worse. But this kind of quiet was different. It was a heavy quiet. A terrible, anxious quiet. Like something was about to happen.

And yet, America was nowhere to be seen. At all. It was like he had suddenly vanished. There was no trace of that disgusting killer. No photo on the wall, no stain of blood on the carpet, no clothes left behind, no pictures on the fridge.. Nothing.

It was like he never existed.

Perú's eyes filled with tears as he gazed upon the empty home. It was far too silent, too empty.

It was then when he realized he needed America. He may be a murderer, but he was all he had. Right away, Perú whipped out his phone, dialed America's number and brought it to his right ear.

One thing America had foolishly forgotten to do was to erase his contact from Perú's phone. There was one last trace of himself with Perú, and he had forgotten about it. He thought that he might have deleted it himself during the days that they had lived together after the... incident.

The phone rang and rang. It rang and rang and rang until it was on its last ring, and then America had finally picked up.

"Hello?" His tired, empty voice answered, rough from either sleep or the lack of talking, and almost completely devoid of emotion.

"Ame—" Perú gulped. "I... I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. "

America, far away from Perú and whiskey glass in hand, froze. How did he not see who was calling him? How did he not know? Goddamnit. He forgot to erase the contact. Fuck. Shit. Dammit.

America drew in a shuddered breath.

"No, no, I'm sorry." He apologized, taking a sip of the alcohol. "I made you feel unsafe in your own home, none of this is your fault."

"Please! America, I need you. I need you in my life. I'm nothing without you!"

Then came the waterworks. Perú pulled the phone away from his face, not wanting America to hear his sobbing. He cupped a hand over his mouth to stifle his pitiful cries.

"There is no me without you!"

"Perú, please," America begged, his voice thick as he set himself down on a bar stool and held the phone close to him. He wanted Perú to get away from him, because he knew so well that he couldn't keep himself away from him. He was a predator, and he would always follow his prey, no matter how much he loved them.

America's chest tightened at the sound of his sobs, even if they were muffled. He curled into himself a little, as if trying to make himself feel like he was holding his small boyfriend and hiding him from the world. He wanted to take him into his arms and hold him so tight, but he knew for a fact that Perú would struggle and beg for him to let go. And every time, he would let him go. Some predator he was.

"I.. Perú, baby," America begged. "Please.. just.. think it over. I don't want to scare you anymore, please."

"No, America. I'm not thinking it over. Please, come back. I can't lose you. You're everything I have— Had. Have? I don't know."

Perú couldn't stand the idea of being alone after the time he'd spent with his boyf— Ex-boyfriend? What was he to America anymore?

"I'll send you my apartment number, but please, for the love of God, think it over." America's chest ached. His whole being hummed with the need to wrap himself around Perú and to make sure he felt safe. He wanted to curl around him and to hold him tight and never let go. He wanted to keep him safe and he wanted to protect him from everything, even himself. But he couldn't do that.

He wondered how Perú wasn't terrified of his teeth when they had met all those years back. He wondered if he cared, or if he was worried about being cut on them. It never happened, since America was far too gentle and careful with him for it to really ever happen, but the thought still stands. "I'm not what you think I am, Perú. Please."

"I know. You're a murderer. You're fucked up. I hate it. But I can't leave you, I can't. I need you."

It pained Perú to say— But if it hurt him to say, he couldn't imagine how much it must've hurt for America to hear.

And it sure as hell hurt America to hear. He hated hearing it, he hated it with his whole being. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt so fucking bad.

"Rosslyn Road, Apartment Nine, second floor." America finally caved. As much as he didn't want to, as much as he tried to keep Perú safe, he failed.

He tried, and he failed.

"Rosslyn Road, apartment nine, second floor— You're living with your brother? Isn't that where Canada lives?" Perú recognized the address right away. He raised his hand to chew on his finger, then bit down. Hard. With a gasp, he dropped the phone onto the counter. Fuck— He picked it up again with the hand he didn't bite.

"Where he used to live. He moved in with Danielle. America sighed through the phone, almost hugging the damned thing close to himself. He wanted to wrap his arms around Perú's tiny body, he wanted to keep him close and prevent anything bad from getting him. He had to keep him close. He had to. He felt a jolt of nervousness when he heard Perú gasp through the phone.

Perú shook out his bit hand, hissing at the dull ache. At least it wasn't Ame who bit him, imagine those teeth— No, he wasn't going to think about that. America's teeth were beautiful. There was nothing to be afraid of.

"Oh, I forgot."

"Mhm." America took another sip of his whiskey. "Come by when you feel ready, if you want. Take your time."

America poured more of the alcohol into the glass, mostly because he noticed how it was getting low. It's a little sad how whiskey can run out so easily. But oh well, time to get his mask ready. Perú won't be happy to see his teeth.

"Did you take the bus? I noticed the truck is still here. Please don't tell me you walked."

"I'm not gonna confirm nor deny that."

He walked.

Perú frowned. "Never do that again."

America sighed through the speaker, not bothering to try and retaliate and only agreeing with him. He doubted Perú would be this bold when they happened to be face to face. "Very well."

"...Thank you," Perú sighed before taking the keys off the command hook on the wall. "I'm on my way."

With that, Perú hung up and made his way to the truck.

"Be careful." America told him through the phone, setting it aside upon hearing that Perú had hung up. America then just sank into his chair sadly, grabbing his glass and drinking a few heavy gulps.

* * *

Perú raised his fist to knock on the door, only to hesitate.

There was no doubt about it— He was scared. He was entering the cave of the beast, the home of the man he had grown to fear and tear himself apart over.

Without any further thought, he gave the door three gentle knocks.

At first, there was nothing from the male that lived inside of the makeshift monster's den, not a sound or word. Then, faintly, there was the sound of footsteps that approached closer.

Then the door swung open, albeit somewhat slowly.

Standing there in the doorway was the unmistakable figure of America, always too tall for the doorframe, and built like a fucking wall. Over the lower half of his face was a black cloth mask, which covered up his mouth and obscured his teeth from view, thankfully.

He didn't say a word, only letting Perú inside.

Perú slowly slunk into the apartment, watching America closely over his shoulder. His hand stayed inside his coat pocket, presumably to hold onto his means of self-defense— still his pocket knife.

America closed the door behind him gingerly, not wanting to get a noise complaint from the asshole neighbors who didn't get the concept of not being able to control it. He simply made his way back to the bar, sitting down on one of the stools and sneaking a sip from his whiskey glass while he let Perú get comfortable. As desperate as he had sounded over the phone, he was still quite cautious and nervous around him. He wasn't surprised.

Perú heaved a sigh, shutting his eyes for a brief moment before flickering them open to look at America.

"Can... Can we talk this out? Without me breaking down?"

America motioned for him to take a seat, setting down his whiskey glass on the counter and placing his elbows on his knees. He leaned downward to be closer to Perú's height, his deep ocean blue eyes locking onto the smaller male but quickly averting away to prevent discomfort.

Perú recoiled into himself upon making eye contact with America. His hold around the knife tightened to an iron grip as he prepared himself to reel his arm back and bring it back forward in a stabbing motion.

But the need never came. America looked away.

Perú took a seat.

America saw him tense. He had an idea of what was in that pocket and he didn't like the idea in any way. He could tell that Perú was terrified of him and yet he couldn't help but feel like he should back away from him and not try to make contact. He wouldn't help a thing, anyways. He was only there because Perú still needed him.

He exhaled through his nose slowly, intertwining his fingers as he kept his gaze away from Perú.

"Well," He hummed. "Go ahead."

"I need you, America. You're all I have..." Perú began. "And as much as it's tearing me apart, I need you in my life. The only thing that scares me more than being in your presence is losing you."

"And yet, you still keep that knife with you." America muttered, leaning back and away from him as a means to make himself look bigger, but also to hide himself away. To create space. He reached for his whiskey glass and moved up his mask a little to take a quick sip before covering his face again.

"Reconsider." America stated aloud. "I'm not a good option."

"America."

Perú let go of the pocket knife, a difficult move, considering the state of utter terror he was in.

"Is it not clear? You're all I have. I've gotten a taste of what it's like to be loved right and now, I can't let go. I feel like a tick clinging to your skin, a leech draining you and leaving you devoid of all that makes you human. I can't let go. I never will."

America raised an eyebrow at him calling his name, watching curiously as he removed his hand from his pocket and seemed to have let go of the knife. Damn. He heard him. Even with those endearing words that made him long to embrace Perú, he knew better.

"I'd rather leave than have the one person who is supposed to trust me carry around a knife because they feel unsafe around me."

"Why are you so offended by my fear? I have every... Every right to be afraid of you. Remember when you threatened to kill me if I kept pressing?"

"Do you remember when I actually tried to kill you?" America fired back, his eyes narrowing as he curled his lip beneath the mask. "Do you remember when I had actually intended to harm you, and not just some empty bluff?"

"You sure as hell seemed to have meant it when you held me down on the ground when I had threatened to tell on you for murdering people. Fucking— Shit. I'm sorry. Let's try this again."

Perú took a deep breath.

"Do you still love me?"

America huffed, his hopeless expression beginning to change into an infuriated scowl as he breathed in slowly and averted his gaze away. No, don't keep eye contact. Don't look at him. Don't.

"I do."

"Then why do you act like you hate me?"

If Perú sounded heartbroken, it was because he was.

The heartbreak in his voice seemed to shatter America's own heart as he willed himself to hold down tears.

"To protect you."

"...Leave it to me to protect myself. You're hurting me, you're hurting me so bad. I've just about fucking had it."

Perú's eyes seemed to glisten in the painfully bright light of the kitchenette. After a moment of stagnant silence, the tears came dripping down like someone had turned on a faucet inside Perú.

"And I don't want to hurt you. But it seems like any time I try to convey that, you seem to think that I'll kill you." America tried his best to not look Perú in the eyes. He couldn't. Once he saw that heartbroken look and that emptiness, he knew that he wouldn't be able to hold himself together. He inhaled slowly through the mask.

"You always seem to think that I'll hurt you, and when I leave to give you space, you keep running after me."

Perú leaned across the table to take the man's hand. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I can't look at you the same now that I know what I know. I don't— I don't know if we can ever have what we had. I want to, but..."

He looked up at America, desperately trying to make eye contact.

America shook his head, but he let Perú take his hand. He didn't bother to react too much, barely moving his hand in Perú's much smaller, much more delicate hands. How could he hold them so trustingly and delicately, especially when they were the same ones he used to crush the life out of others? Tears glinted in his eyes as he tried his best to not look into Perú's eyes. He couldn't scare him like that.

"America. America, please, look at me."

"I can't." America choked out, pitiful and strained. "I can't."

Perú leaned over even further, dropping America's hand in favor of cupping America's cheek instead. A harsh, violent sob threatened to wrack his small body and send him back into his seat, but he bit it back.

America inhaled slowly, screwing his eyes closed as he did so in a effort to keep the tears down. He felt like he was breaking at the seams. "I can't look at you, I'll only end up making you scared."

With that, Perú let go. He scooted off his seat and rushed around the table to take the big man into his arms. Perú shook like a motherfucker as he did it, but nothing would settle in between him and his lover. Not now, not when America was on the verge of tears.

America watched him nervously, afraid of what he would do, but also waiting to see what would happen. He grew nervous as Perú got closer and closer to him, freezing up when he had clambered onto the bar stool to envelop America into a hug. And yet, he could still feel him shaking like a leaf in the wind.

He felt like a wolf trying to tell a rabbit that he had caught to run free. He'd been gentle with carrying it, but the thing got attached.

America finally broke, the tears in his eyes spilling over as he held onto Perú with a loose hold but let out a heartbreaking sob that shattered his whole being. He felt weak and horrible.

"It's okay to cry in front of me," was all Perú whispered to him, wrapping his arms tight around his boyfriend. He held the man close, because now, it was America's turn to be three. America was forty five, but he was also forty four, forty three, and so on— But right now, he needed to be three. And that was more than okay.

America let loose another sob as he pulled Perú closer to himself, slightly curling around him as he let loose and sobbed up a storm into his small boyfriend. Tears poured down his face and stained his mask, but yet he couldn't find it within himself to care.

Didn't last long, of course, because then he began to try and swallow and choke down those pathetic sobs. He felt like a pussy. He's 45, he shouldn't be crying. He shouldn't be this weak. He's a fucking man, not a goddamn boy. And even then, boys don't cry.

Perú held the country, rubbing soothing circles into his back. He raised a brow at America's sudden silence.

"Ame. If I'm allowed to cry in front of you, then you can cry in front of me."

After a bit of choking down and holding back, he finally managed to get himself into some sort of order. The American melted into those soothing touches on his back, some of the tension in his body melting away as he leaned onto Perú and hugged him tighter.

"I'm fine." America whined, his voice still strained and pain stricken.

"You're not fine, America. I've known you for a third of my life. I can tell when you're not fine."

Perú continued the gentle circular rubbing motions, humming softly to him. He shut his eyes, then with a moment of hesitation, pressed a kiss to America's forehead.

America couldn't argue with that. He was right. He knew he was right and he didn't want to admit it, due to the immense pain it would bring. He was about to protest with his meek and heavy voice, until he felt a pair of soft lips press to his forehead.

America froze, confused as to where that bravery came from.

"I love you," was all Perú said. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

Perú showered America in little kisses all over his face. He was trembling so violently and his head buzzed with a dizziness he knew would knock him over if he didn't step away from America, but he didn't stop.

America didn't complain, only sitting still and allowing for the other to shower him in endless kisses and to coat him in a thin layer of love. He just sniffled and let him, trying not to break. That hurt a whole fuckton, but he loved the feeling. Now he just had to wait until Perú spooked himself again.

"You're allowed to cry, it is perfectly okay. You're allowed to cry, Ame."

"No, No," America gulped once more, choking down the sobs that threatened to break him. "I'm fine. I'm fine."

"You're not fine. And that's okay. It's okay to not be okay."

"No, it's not." America whimpered. "It's not, and you know it's not."

"I'd rather you be silent after you've coped with your feelings, not after you've suppressed them."

"You'd rather that I wear a mask over my mouth rather than risk me biting you, you mean?" America bitterly hissed, his voice that sounded like he had recently been crying took the sting off of it.

"Shut up and let me love you," Perú proceeded to resume showering him with little pecks.

America made a noise in the back of his throat, but leaning into the affection nonetheless. Even beneath those layers of coldness and a normal facade, he was still an affection starved baby with so many problems and trauma that nobody had uncovered before. He was hurt, and still hurting. He wasn't done licking his wounds, but he was more than willing to make others bear mortal wounds that would make em bleed out.

"I am so in love with you, you know that?"

"I'm aware." He chuckled. "You really drove your ass out here to confront me and you clambered your way onto my lap."

"Confront?"

"You wanted to talk. You wanted to face your fears."

"Because I love you."

"I know." America squeezed him a little tighter, loosening him up after a moment. "I love you too."

Perú tensed. He took a deep, shaky breath, then relaxed.

America took note of his tenseness. Ah. So no squeezing then. Alright. Instead, he just loosened his hold, hoping with some blind force that he would grow more comfortable.

Perú eventually pulled away, for the fear became too much. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

America shook his head, smiling beneath the mask as he slipped down a little for him to sip his whiskey. "Don't be."

Perú backed away upon seeing his teeth. The fucking teeth. A shiver went down his spine to his knees.

Ah, damnit. The teeth. The fucking teeth. America cursed himself mentally, slipping the mask back up his face and slouching over the bar again, whiskey glass still in hand. He didn't say a word more to Perú. He'd pushed hard enough.

Perú gulped. He raised a shaking hand to tuck a strand of hair into his hat. "Can... Can you come back? Back home?"

"For the night." America responded, his voice empty but heavy, like he was tired or regretful.

"No, forever?"

"I don't want you to feel unsafe in your own home." The older male fussed with his whiskey glass. "Just for the night. We'll see about later, however."

"No?"

"No."

"I don't believe I left it up for debate. Only for the night."

"America—"

"Only. For. The. Night." America reinstated, more firm this time.

"No!"

"Perú, I swear to God,"

"Swear you'll what? Eat me?"

"No, Perú, don't go there."

"Then stay with me."

"I can't. Perú, you know why I can't."

"I need you!" Perú broke down again. His body trembled violently. He reached for America's hand.

America took his hand, gently holding it and tugging him a little closer. "I know, but please, please, just don't.."

"You want me to stop needing you? America... That's impossible."

"No, I mean stop hurting yourself. You beg me to not let you go after you stagger away from me for talking to you."

"I'm not— I'm not hurting myself. I'm stuck in this cycle. But I'll get it out of it if you let me get used to you."

"You can try. I'll sit still, but I can't guarantee a thing."

"What does that mean?"

"Take it how you want. But you get to decide where to start."

"America. I'm begging you. Please, stay at home. I need to get used to you," Perú begged and pleaded with him. He squeezed America's hand so tight he thought it would pop.

"You need to take it slow, Perú. You know damn well that you can't try to get used to all of me." America squeezed his hand in return, but not with as much bone crushing force.

"No, I want all of you. Now."

"Jesus, take me to dinner first."

"Get your mind out of the gutter!" Perú suddenly laughed, bringing America's hand to his chest. He held it tightly and close, as if he were afraid America would recoil away.

"Meh, I'd prefer it be in the gutter than be in whatever it was a few minutes ago." America opened his hand a little more, like he was pressing his hand to Perú's chest. He didn't recoil, surprisingly. He was just letting Perú have his fun. "Besides, am I not allowed to love my boyfriend?"

"You don't have to have sex to be in love, America," Perú hummed, wiping the tears from his face with the back of his shaking hand. He was still trembling, but he wasn't running away again anytime soon.

"I know, but that kind of love is special. It shows trust and vulnerability." America reached up to gently move Perú's hand away and to cup the side of his face. Sure, his palms were calloused and rough from the life he led before Perú knew him, but his touches were softer than silk, light as butterfly wings. "Of course, I'd rather have sex with someone I love rather than with some random person. Just not what I'm into."

Perú flinched, but then leaned into his tender touch. He shut his eyes, only to open them again. He loved America, but he didn't trust him enough to keep his eyes shut around him just yet. "...How did our conversation go from me being terrified of you— To sex?"

"Ask yourself. You made the statement." America chuckled, ignoring that little tell of his nervousness. He just had to let him do his thing and get used to him.

"You're the one who made it sexual!"

"Am I, though?"

"How much have you had to drink tonight?" Perú raised a brow.

"Eh, I dunno." America shrugged. "I'm not exactly a lightweight, Perú. Don't expect me to get drunk on one bottle."

"Big boy," was all Perú said.

"Get on your knees and beg, baby boy." Was all America said in retaliation, knowing for sure he would win. He was joking.

Perú flushed red. "I'm— Uh! Uhm... Nah, I'm good!"

"I thought so." America chuckled, deep but soft and sweet.

"Wait! How did you— You always manage to cheer me up," Perú gushed. "How is it possible for someone to be so perfect?"

"It's not." He brushed his thumb over Perú's cheekbone, slowly and gently. "I just happen to love you a whole lot."

Perú shuffled a little closer. "I love you too, Ame."

The big brute practically melted at that. The warmth and love in his words made his insides jelly, and he had almost forgotten what it felt like. He wanted to pull him closer and coat him in kisses, to hold him tight and keep him there forever and ever. But yet, he knew he couldn't.

"I love you more."

"I love you most!" Perú then pried America's fingers off his face and backed away. "Sorry, too much. Too much. I need to sit down—"

America looked to him with worried eyes.

"Be careful, please." America begged him, keeping a careful eye on him despite wanting to drink his whiskey.

Perú scrambled back into his seat like lightning. He wrapped his arms around himself, shaking his head vigorously as if to dismiss the thoughts of America tearing people apart with those teeth.

America could see him panicking. He was far from a fool. A monster, yes, a cannibal, yes, but a fool? Never. Perú was scared of something about him. If it was anything he knew, he was scared of his teeth. But yet, he played dumb.

"You okay?"

Perú gulped. "...Yeah. Just— Don't. Don't do anything. I need a moment."

"...Okay." America did as he was asked, sitting still and watching Perú with cautious but also very gentle eyes. He wanted him to be okay.

Perú took a few deep, shaky breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In for four seconds, hold for four seconds, out for four seconds.

While Perú was doing his breathing exercises, America contemplated leaving to file down his teeth. Maybe then he wouldn't be as threatening, or nearly as scary. He'd be normal. He'd be okay. But no, the last time he tried he broke the file.

Eventually, Perú calmed himself enough to speak to America again.

"C... Come back home? Please?"

This again.

America sighed.

"Fine."

* * *

The door slammed shut with a thunderous bang.

Perú shed his coat, chucked it onto the recliner instead of the coat rack, then stormed into the kitchen.

Costa was right. He hated it, but she was right. He had to get the wolf before it got him.

America, reclined comfortably in the loveseat, jumped suddenly at the slamming of the door, pausing his episode of Grey's Anatomy and looking over nervously.

Perú didn't look too happy. He didn't know if he should even call his name or not, he looked so pissed. America could only shake his head and attempt to ignore him, unpausing his show.

Perú propped himself up against the counter, counting his breaths to calm down. This too shall pass, this too shall pass, he repeated in his head.

Fuck. No, Costa was right. It had to be done.

Perú slipped a hand into the back pocket of his pants, flipped open the pocket knife, then made his way back into the kitchen. He crept up behind his lover, knife in hand. Then, with a swift, fluid swing of his arm, he brought the blade down onto America, aiming for his neck.

Unfortunately for the nervous and lightly bent-out-of-shape Peruvian, he had missed and hit the cushion right next to the brute's neck. The springs in the couch gave a metallic noise upon being hit so suddenly, the fabric of the loveseat giving way easily to the sharpened blade.

The American brute flinched, looking to the side to notice a fucking knife embedded into the cushion of the couch, too close to his neck for comfort. His catlike eyes widened, those icy blue irises suddenly becoming cold and empty. That emptiness was filled with a different, more violent emotion soon enough.

"What the fuck was that?" America snarled, his lip curling to reveal his teeth, unfortunately hidden by the mask.

"I... I— Uhm..." Perú backed away from the loveseat, hands in the air in front of him. He then turned and scrambled down the hall, where he turned into the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind him. It locked with a click.

America wasn't surprised that Perú backed away without an explanation. He simply waited until his hand was off of the knife's black plastic handle, grabbing the weapon and ripping it from the cushion of the loveseat. This.. oh, this certainly would not fly.

Perú's hurried footsteps towards the bathroom only begged America to chase after him. Anger, vengefulness, and something close to predatory glee flared in his chest as he moved the knife to his dominant hand and followed Perú's path towards the bathroom.

Shame that he locked it. It would only make it worse for himself.

In about as nice of a voice as America could manage, he spoke, "Unlock the door, Perú." His voice nearly shook, but not for the reason one may think.

"I'm sorry!" Perú wailed from inside the bathroom. He was squatting on top of the toilet lid, knees tucked close to his chest and arms wrapped tight around himself.

Regret. Big fucking regret.

"America! Please, please don't hurt me!"

"Just.. unlock the door." America's voice quivered more as he struggled to hold himself together. He placed his empty fist against the door to the bathroom, leaning his weight against it. "We can talk it out, just open the door."

Perú sniffled. Shuffling could be heard from inside the bathroom, before the door unlocked with another click. Perú peeked his little head out the door to peer at the brute.

"Ame?"

Remember when I'd said that America did his best to stay even and calm? Throw that out the fucking window.

Almost immediately, the brute grabbed ahold of the door, pushing it open slowly with nothing but brute strength. His blue eyes gleamed maliciously, his mouth covered by a black cloth mask but still making him more intimidating than ever. He loomed over the much smaller male, casting a shadow onto him.

He hadn't made a move to hurt him yet. Not yet.

Perú shrieked, scrambling back to duck into the bathtub. He held out his hands in front of his face, both physically and mentally preparing himself to be eaten alive by the monster of a man in front of him.

America winced slightly at the shriek, the grating and horribly loud noise stirring up something inside of him. It was painful in the way that it sounded like nails on a chalkboard and made a shiver crawl up his spine, but spurred on something predatory and cruel within him. He wanted to dig his teeth into him and bite down. But he shook it off. No.

America closed the bathroom door with his foot behind him, slowly approaching the much smaller male and reaching out with his unoccupied hand to gently grasp Perú's hand. Those blue eyes stared deep into the other's, seemingly sympathetic and sweet. He looked almost.. sorry.

Until the blade of the knife was buried into Perú's side.

Perú's jaw drops in a silent scream and his gaze flickers up to meet America's. His eyes then glance down to the knife nestled in his side, back to America, and then his eyes roll back as he hits the floor.

America didn't bother to play nice. He let go of the knife completely as Perú fell to the floor, watching as the blood began to pool by his side.

He took the weapon by the handle and sliced it along the lower part of Perú's stomach, the blade of the knife slicing through his soft flesh with ease. Blood splattered the bathtub, painting it a tragic red color as the blood dripped from the knife's blade. Slowly, surely, he had begun to cut the boy open.

An hour of slicing, chewing, and hacking later, the bathtub's floor was coated in a layer of deep red blood, darkened from the exposure to oxygen. Perú, on the other hand, was pale. Empty. Devoid of blood. All of it had spilled onto the bottom of the tub.

America pushed himself up from his dead boyfriend's corpse, sighing lowly at the scene. His mouth, now missing the mask, was coated in blood. Pieces of gore and flesh matter stuck to the blood as well, even as if dropped down his neck and onto his shirt. His hands and half of his forearms had that same sticky substance on it, blood caked beneath his fingernails and flesh bits sticking to his hands.

He turned away from it, stumbling to the sink. Above it hung a mirror, shiny and polished and untouched. America lifted his eyes to meet his own in his reflection. However beautiful they may be, those ocean blue depths, he found no compassion within them. They gleamed with predatory drives like that of a wolf. Blood and gore stuck to his face and his neck, his teeth gleamed in the light. It all screamed one thing; predator.

America raised his fist and drove it into the mirror, shattering the reflection of himself and sending the reflective shards everywhere.


	2. two

Fast forward sixty years.

Low, mumbling chatter danced around the room, filling up the space with a makeshift equivalent to white noise, or TV static. Warmly colored light shone down from the ceiling, but barely illuminated the area with its gentle rays. In other terms, it was dark, shadows casting down onto the people inside, talking, toasting, laughing, drinking... It hid many things about these people.

In this kind of darkness, they were mere lambs. So easy to pick off, and so easy to attack. Their tongues were loosened with the alcohol of their choice, burning their throats and muddling their senses to make them feel better. The collars of their shirts always seemed to be loose, unbuttoned. Like they were taking off the very bell that kept them safe. Foolish.

America tapped his fingers on the finished wood of the bar counter, going from his little finger to his index, over and over again. He was merely waiting for his Moscow Mule to be finished, but was half-listening to whatever story his colleague, South Korea, had to say. His tongue was loosened too, since this was happy hour for this bar and he decided that it would be a great way to get to know each other... Even though America knew him like that back of his hand. Don't tell him that, though, he'll freak out just a little.

South Korea had himself propped up against the bar counter, shot glass full of soju in hand. He gave the spirit a gentle swirl in its glass, then raised it to his lips to down it with an audible gulp. Sweet like sugar. Well, mostly because there was a lot of added sugar. No, no, no. South Korea didn't like his drinks strong, he liked them sweet.

Right away, he went back to babbling on about whatever girl he'd gotten himself attached to this time.

"So then, she took me by the hand and told me she loved me like the stars love the moon! Whatever that means... It was sweet. Sweet like this soju!" South Korea laughed at his own joke. "Anyways, I feel like I've been doing a lot of the talking. How's the special lady in your life?"

America's own drink of choice was a fine whiskey. Expensive, golden, and mildly strong. That's why he only had two glasses. He didn't bother to lift up his mask to sip at it anymore, it wasn't a problem he had to care about.

The larger man's idle finger-tapping was halted at the question of South Korea. Special lady? Who said he liked women? But yet, he knew that he'd mentioned that he had a partner to him at some point, he just couldn't remember when. America held down a curse beneath his breath, scoffing.

"I don't have one, Korea," The older male raised his eyebrows at South, pulling down his mask to sip at his alcohol.

"Special man? Special human? Special object? Come on, knowing a stud like you, there's gotta be somebody," South Korea poured himself another shot of soju before downing it in a flash. "I don't care if you're gay. You can tell me anything."

South Korea was a good man. Sure, he was over-the-top, cheesy, and had gone through more divorces than you could count on your fingers and toes, but he had good intentions. He didn't care who you were, so long as you never crossed him. Even then, he couldn't stay mad forever. He'd come crawling back on all fours as soon as his brother started bothering him again and he needed help.

"My uh..." America started, his voice barely audible through the mask and over the hum of chatter in the busy bar. He tried to think of an explanation, one that wouldn't give him away as what he was. He was in a public space, after all. He didn't need to exactly scream that he had tendencies that would make South Korea retch, he'd spook the guy.

"I used to have a special someone. His name was Perú," America began. "I'm sure you've seen him around. He was the sweetest thing on the earth. Beautiful, bright eyes, the most trusting smile, and such a great hugger, too."

A pang of agony raptured his chest as he spoke.

"I went to go get something from the store, and when I came back... I found him dead in the bathroom. With a knife from the kitchen in his hand."

"Oh... Oh my God. I am so, so sorry to hear that," South Korea gasped, dropping his shot glass onto the counter, abandoning it to bring his hand to his chest. "Yes, I knew Perú, albeit not very well. He used to work with my fourth ex-wife's acquaintance."

"It... was not a good day for me," America hummed, taking a gulp of his drink of choice. "I try to honor him the best I can, since he was such a wonderful man, but... It gets hard, y'know? Sometimes it's too painful."

He downed another gulp. The burn helped him distract himself from the flames of guilt within him. Those burned worse than the alcohol.

"You are the only person I can expect that kind of response from."

"What do you mean by that, America?" South Korea tilted his head. He wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, though he was empathetic. What he didn't have in smarts, he made up for in sensitivity.

"Buy the stuff he likes, frame pictures of him, think of all the funny things he said.." America trailed off. He could feel the pain now. Every single bit of it. Each time Perú would screech in terror or flinch away from him, every time he would sob and beg for him to come back, only to push him away out of fear. Thinking about it gave America a headache, a pounding and terrible one too.

He appreciated the empathy from South Korea, however. It took away some of the pain in his chest, but not in his head.

"But uh...Yeah. That's my tragic story."

"I understand how it feels to lose someone you love..." South Korea looked at him with a soft look in his eyes. "Though, I don't have it as bad as you have it right now. I lost my brother to... I don't know what took him. But he wasn't always the way he is. Oh, my bad! I'm making this about myself. I didn't mean to do that. Continue? If there's more to say? If this conversation has reached a steady conclusion we can change topics or—"

"No, no, don't worry about it," America chuckled, but made an effort to barely show his teeth. Nobody needed to know that the ram was a wolf. "It's fine, there wasn't much to say, anyways. I was just rambling, really."

He gulped down the rest of the whiskey, and motioned to the bartender for more. He was quite the heavyweight.

"It feels nice to know that someone understands."

"There's a lot to say. You were in a committed relationship that ended in tragedy. Now, that's something I understand, first hand."

And boy, oh, boy. South Korea sure understood that. He was young, still in his early thirties, but he'd jumped from marriage to marriage like it was an Olympic sport. All seven of them ending in bitter divorce. This new broad he'd picked up was sure to stay, he hoped. But alas, he could only hope. South Korea didn't understand why all the women he loved eventually grew to despise him. Maybe it was the fact he didn't want to settle down and start a family like his partners did. Maybe he just wasn't good enough. Maybe it was his spontaneity and impulsivity. God knew.

"Hey, I know you're a big guy who can take a lot of alcohol, but take it easy. You know, that shit just depresses you. Oh, excuse my language!"

America chuckled, his lips pulling back just a smidge to reveal his teeth, but not too much of them. Like a light smile.

"I should be telling you that, Southie," He dropped a small nickname, sipping his drink. "You're downing that shit like water in the desert. You sure you're okay?"

South Korea's face warmed at the nickname. "It's forty proof! Barely anything. Besides, I can afford to get plastered. I fucking need it tonight."

"Bah. I need it too, little boy. You sure you can drink enough of that to get piss drunk?" Now here he comes with the nicknames. Mostly just to egg South on, but also to see his reaction. "Shit's barely got any alcohol, it's basically sugar water."

"Watch me."

South Korea grabbed the bottle of soju off the counter, brought it to his mouth and began chugging away. Glug, glug, glug.

America scoffed at his boldness, one eyebrow raising at him and his unusual boldness. South Korea certainly was a man who didn't take shit seriously, but boy was he the life of the party. There was always a saying about it, but it isn't a party without South Korea.

"Easy there, bucko. Didn't say you had to drown yourself."

South Korea polished off the bottle lickety split. He slammed it back down onto the counter, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He took a deep breath.

"If I want to drown myself in alcohol, I'll do it. I'm not the designated driver," he cracked a grin.

"And I'm not going to deal with a South Korea that's mistaken me for his fifty-ninth wife in a row. But do whatever you want, Southie. Not like I can change your mind."

Now America was toying with him. Egging him on. He purposefully dropped the nickname he gave him to continue to mess with him. He liked to toy with him.

"Fifty-ninth? What, I've got one marriage for every year you've lived on this miserable blue marble we call home?"

South Korea knew America wasn't fifty nine.

"Psssh, please, I wish I was alive that long. I would have had shit done a loooong time ago now," South calling America old was a joke the two had running between them. America didn't take any real offense, he just found it funny. "You know I'm forty-five, Southie."

"Had what shit done?" South Korea reached for the bottle to pour himself another shot, only to frown when he remembered he chugged it all in an attempt to make the conversation more rich and fulfilling for America. "Shit... Should I get more?"

"Ah, y'know, paid off student loan debts quicker, done jury duty more than twice, met my niece, that kinda shit," America chuckled at his disdained face. "If you wanna lose it tonight, go right ahead."

"I'm sorry, lose what?"

"That's up to your imagination."

"My mind? My new girlfriend? My virginity?"

"Like I said, that's up to you. I doubt you even have your virginity."

"You'd... be surprised," South Korea chuckled, looking down at his empty shot glass with pink dusting his otherwise pale cheeks.

" There is no way," America exclaimed, a grin spreading onto his face as it slowly donned on him. He had to hold down a laugh, simply to save South's ego and to not show his teeth. "You have no idea how hard it is not to laugh, oh my god—"

"Shut up! I know! I've been married seven times and I've never had sex! So what?!" South Korea folded his arms across his chest. He frowned. "I just... It never felt like the right person. And I was always afraid my partner would poke holes in the condom. You know how all my relationships end. The girl always turns out to be a bitch. She comes into my life happy and as spry as a spring chicken, and I ruin her."

"Nothing of it! It's fine to wait!" America chuckled as he waved it off, holding down a smile as he held his hand to the lower half of his face. Even then, those chuckles of his died slowly as he listened to what his colleague had to say. "Maybe you're either picking the wrong ones, or you're just.. not into women. Personally, if you ask me, you seem to like the idea of women. You fall in love with what you have visualized in your head that you hope for them to be; in this case, you seem very hopeful that they won't screw you over."

"You know, you do have a point there. A trend I've noticed with my relationships is that they move super fast. I mean, seven marriages and I'm thirty three? Sheesh. I mean, with Diane— you remember her, right? Human woman, dark hair? —We got married three months after we met! But then she wanted to have a baby. And I just... I can't tie myself down like that."

"I've only dated twice, and I'm forty-five! You're moving way faster than me, that's for sure." America deadpanned, gulping down his drink. "Yep, I remember her. I think you cried on my jacket for two hours. They're just looking for money. They see that you are good looking, and realize you're sweeter than candy, and they see ya as easy prey. Plus, it doesn't hurt to experiment."

"Yeah... She was amazing. I think I'm still not over her. I mean— Cindy is great and all, I... Fuck. Maybe I should give up on humans. They're so complicated. And maybe I should experiment with my sexuality a little bit!"

"It doesn't hurt to," Ame reminded him with a raise of his eyebrows while he sipped his drink. "I'd say take a break from humans, but don't give up. There are some who aren't total pieces of shit."

Never mind that America screwed some of his own soldiers.

"Thank you... Thank you so much, America. You are wonderful. I am blessed to have met you. You're like the light at the end of the tunnel for me."

America froze. No. No, no no no, don't think about it. Don't. Do NOT think about it. DO NOT. And yet, even while he screamed internally at himself to not think about it, all he could do was think about it. Perú. Oh god, Perú..No, no don't.

America forced a smile onto his face, albeit a nice one, as he nodded. "You're welcome."

South Korea beamed up at him. "Any tips? Wait, no, I've already asked so much of you. I'm sorry."

"Porn. Always try out porn. And then try out male model magazines," America was doing well at hiding it.

South Korea's eyes widened. He flushed fire engine red. "I meant— Not necessarily the sex part. Hold on! What if my partner wants to have sex? Where does the dick go? In the other dick? Oh GOD—"

"Oh my god— the ass, in the ass—"

"Up the pooper!?"

America snickered. "Yes, I guess."

"But... It's so tight. Wouldn't that hurt?"

South Korea was clearly not well versed in the fine art of fucking.

"That's true, but there's a reason lube and fingers exist."

"Uhm... Okay. That's— That's horrifying information. But cool. Good for you. Actually, that probably wouldn't be too bad if you do it right. Fuck it! I'm gonna have sex with my brother!"

"WAIT NO— DON'T—"

"He's the only man I've ever loved! Who else?"

"I don't condone incest, nor does anybody else— do NOT fuck your brother!"

"We've showered together."

"What," America's eyes widened. "Okay, you need better standards, who knows what North may have contracted."

"To be fair, we were both thirteen. It was before he... Changed.

"Woah woah woah there, bucko, back the hell up. Thirteen? What the hell happened there—?!"

South Korea waved over the bartender and quickly ordered another bottle of soju. As soon as the bartender walked out of earshot, he continued, pouring himself another shot before downing it. "It was his idea! At first I was like, hell no. Gross. And what if mom found out? But then he promised that nobody else had to know. It would be our little secret. So..."

America eyed his whiskey with some sort of disgust in his eye. Still, he took another gulp of it while South Korea got his alcohol.

"That's.. manipulative and gross."

"I regret it... But I don't. You feel?"

"I don't. He's literally got you by a string, South. You've got some problems that you need help with."

"He said he'd invade me and then kill me if I told anyone. So don't let this get out? Thanks."

"Invade my ass. He's a fucking third world country with some missiles. That's it. I'm gonna fucking beat his ass."

"No! Please, I love him! And I don't want him to hurt me!"

"You don't love him."

South Korea teared up.

"You're scared of him. You're scared of what will happen next when you don't have him."

South Korea wiped his bleary eyes with the back of his hand. "Ame... Please. He's gonna kill me if you confront him."

"He'll have to kill me first."

South Korea started bawling. "Please! Don't..."

"South, listen to me. He's exploiting you and trying to hurt you. His threats are empty and are not going to do a thing. At least.. not if I can help it."

The man shut his eyes, taking in deep, long breaths. He wrapped his arms around himself, gently rocking back and forth on the barstool.

America sighed. Looking at the helpless, manipulated man next to him, rocking and hugging himself on the barstool, reminded him of Perú. Scared, alone, and seated next to the one man he feared the most, desperately trying to seek affection from him in an attempt to feel normal again. It made his chest ache. But.. this reminder.. it drove him insane. He hated it. He hated it so much.

"If it helps, I can stay over tonight while I help you file a restraining order."

"I can't do that to somebody I love..." South Korea sniffled. He picked up the napkin underneath the bottle of soju and blew his nose into it. He then wadded the used napkin up and stuffed it into the pocket of his slacks. "...Okay. Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." America firmly reinstated. He didn't bother with trying to tell South that he didn't actually love him. He needed a lot more than America could give him.

As America took a sip of his whiskey, he hoped to god that the burn in his throat would drown out the ache in his chest.

* * *

South Korea was absolutely hammered. He clung onto America's arm, groaning and murmuring about Diane and how he wished he had made sweet love to her when she still loved him so that she would stay. They were outside the bar, trying to flag down a cab.

America's arm was looped in South's, holding him close and upright until they had a cab to haul them out of this hellhole of a bar. While South Korea was piss drunk and barely able to stand while making vulgar remarks about his ex-wife, America's posture was straight and collected, his back rigid. He didn't bother to try and console him at the moment, he just had to get him home and figure out where his damn brother lived.

While in the cab, South Korea threw up out the window, told the driver he smelled like "a fish left out in the hot sun in the summer on a school blacktop right next to a dumpster filled with dog shit", then passed out with his head on America's shoulder. Charming.

America could only sigh. "He's drunk, forgive him." He voiced, sliding the driver an extra hundred dollar bill for his troubles. Until then, he kept South Korea still until he passed out and got home.

The cab rolled to a halt in South Korea's driveway.

South Korea's home was a little studio a little ways downtown. His residence wasn't too far from the workplace, but there was a distinct difference between this side of town and America's home. It was most definitely not the most lavish place to live.

Sighing lowly, America unbuckled himself and South Korea from the cab, waving goodbye to the driver as he pulled the other male out from the vehicle and slung him over his shoulder. He heaved a sigh, hoping South Korea wouldn't throw up on him.

America didn't bat an eye at the less lavish home. It wasn't his place to judge someone on their living situation, especially when he was on their level just a decade ago. Either way, he turned open the doorknob to the studio, pushing it open with his foot and closing it with his body as he made his way through.

The inside was dark. So dark. Through the darkness you could barely make out a small workspace in the corner, a bed in the other corner, and a television attached to the wall. On the other side of the room was a kitchenette and a door that probably led to the bathroom. There was no couch, no chairs, no other things. If asked about it, South Korea would just laugh and call himself a minimalist, but there was no sugarcoating it. The home was barren.

Luckily for America, he was well suited for darkness. As he blinked a couple of times and adjusted his catlike eyes to the low light setting, he made a beeline for South Korea's bed to lay him on it. He gently placed the much younger man on the mattress, pulling the blanket back over him to tuck him in. This studio was more than a little sad. It was clear that something happened here, because there was no way in hell that he could possibly have this barren of a flat unless he just got it. And knowing South Korea, he did not just move in.

America heaved a sigh through his nose. Now, to take care of that bastard of a brother he has.

* * *

North Korea was lighting fireworks in his driveway when the man showed up.

America didn't have to go far to find South's degenerate brother, thankfully. He'd only travelled about five blocks to get to him and the sound of fireworks screeching and their brightness was just like an indicator in a first person shooter game. How hilarious. As much as he would love to just strut up there and beat his ass, there might be witnesses. Blegh.

Instead, America leaned himself against an old fence, hidden to the unsuspecting, but if one were to look in his direction, they would see him. Now, he just watched him and surveyed the area.

Everyone was asleep. Nobody had home security. Convenient.

North Korea lurched back and ducked behind the trash bin as the Black Cat fired off into the night. Golden light filled the sky, illuminating the inky jet black blankets above.

North Korea laughed maniacally as the fireworks went off. As soon as the shots ceased, he marched back over to light another.

Even as the blindingly bright light fired into the sky and lit it up like the Fourth of July, America found himself disgusted by it. The night should be revered, not disrespected by such foul contraptions. The deafening boom of the explosion from the firework made America flinch.

"People are trying to sleep, you know."

North Korea jumped, immediately recognizing the American accented voice from behind him. He whipped around, bearing a scowl on his blue and red face.

"Who pissed in your cereal this morning?"

"It wasn't piss. More like tears," America retorted, a scowl, but a cold one, painting his expressions. He didn't look like he wanted to take shit.

"Awh, was little bitch boy crying about his dead boyfriend?"

"Who said they were mine?"

"What, did you pour somebody's tears into the milk? Gross. Milk isn't supposed to be salty. That's cum's job."

"Funny, but no. I'm more concerned about something else," America barely even cracked a smile.

North Korea spun his lighter on his finger, messing with his eyepatch with his free hand. "What?"

"I have a question for ya, commie," America growled, his blue eyes narrowing, something malicious flashing within the oceanic depths. "What makes you think it's okay to manipulate and exploit your brother, you incestuous cuck?"

North Korea froze. His look was that of a deer in headlights. It took a moment, but eventually, he spoke.

"...He told you."

It was supposed to be a question, but it didn't sound like one. Instead it was more of a statement, an observation.

"He did."

America's tone matched North's. A deadpan statement, point, blank, period. The harsh gleam in his eyes didn't waver.

"You tell another soul or lay a hand on me, and I will put you in a trunk and help people look for you," North Korea glared at him in the darkness.

"Oh, how sweet. America falsely purred, raising an eyebrow. He lifted himself from the fence, straightening his back to stand straight once more. He practically towered over the Korean, despite being a number of feet away from him. "The degenerate thinks he can live. That's funny."

North Korea clenched his fists at his sides, gritting his teeth. "You'll regret killing me. South will never forgive you when he finds out."

"I don't even think Jesus could find it within him to forgive you, either." America growled back, taking a slow, long step towards the Korean, with his hands behind his back. "Count your lucky stars, they'll die soon."

"Fuck you," was all the man in front of America said.

"I don't sleep with brother fuckers."

"I never got to have sex with him. And I never will, because you're about to kill me. Right?"

America smirked. "Look at you, finally a coherent thought." He was teasing him. Poking the lion.

America stepped closer to him, his footsteps slow and heel-first. His path was a more circular one, circling the North Korean over and over again.

"Such a shame I never got to. I haven't seen him naked since that day in the shower when we were thirteen, but I bet he's just as... Delightful," North Korea hummed. He turned with America, refusing to let him out his line of sight. "But I'm sure you would know. You slept with him yet? You're probably looking for someone to fill the hole in your heart after Perú got tired of your bullshit and offed himself."

As much as North's words sent disgusted shivers down his spine, especially at the imagery he didn't want to have in his head, he found him trying to shame him for 'sleeping with' South as hilariously funny. He still didn't crack a smile.

Not until he made a reference to Perú's death.

It was a low blow. America felt the pain in his chest return as his facial expression changed from smug to hurt. It took him a moment to recover, to shove down all the painful memories of the blood on his hands, the knife, the look on his face...

"Is that what you think happened?"

"Duh. What else could've happened? Did you kill him?" North Korea laughed.

"As a matter of fact," America had to hold down a laugh. Doing so caused pain in his throat, more so than the whiskey did. It was like he was choking on his own thoughts and words. Like a thick ball of himself had gotten lodged in there.

But what hurt more was his chest. The pain was terrible. It came in pangs, horrible burning pangs of fiery hot guilt. The pain was impossible to bear, horrible and rough and downright terrible. And yet, the laugh still managed to bubble up from him. "Of course. I fucking killed him. I killed him. I said it! I killed him!"

America suddenly whirled around and leaped for North Korea, grabbing him and tackling him into the rough pavement of the uneven and cracked driveway. "Besides, I haven't had my dinner yet. You'll do."

A scream bubbled up from North Korea's throat, escaping from his gaping mouth as America tackled him to the ground. He went down kicking and flailing, writhing against the brute like a worm in the clutches of a curious child.

"You fucking monster! You killed Perú! You killed—"

North Korea howled in agony as he accidentally knocked his head against the pavement.

America's hand clamped itself around North Korea's neck, squeezing mercilessly and sealing off his trachea without a care in the world. The feel of his carotid artery pulsing against his thumb was exhilarating, his struggles egged him on.

"Shut up, you disgusting worm," America spat, his lip curling to bare his sharklike teeth.

For the first time in North Korea's life, he felt the hot, burning sensation building up in his eyes. Before he could stop it, the tears breached his waterline and then came the ugly sobs.

"Amerhhhhhica! Lehhh mrhhh gohhhh!"

"And let you run around and tell the world what I did?" He cracked a smile. An insane smile that held nothing pleasant. "Not a chance."

North Korea wailed, hoping to whatever god there was that the neighbors were home and they would hear.

"I said," America snarled, "Shut the fuck up."

America didn't miss a beat, opening his mouth and maneuvering his tongue around the flesh. He shoved it into his mouth and chewed wetly pulling in more and more as he chewed it up like the skin on a rotisserie chicken.

As he chewed and disgusting, wet grinding sounds came from his mouth, blood and saliva dropped down his lips and chin. Once it was all mush, he'd swallowed thickly, heaving a sigh before turning to North Korea's body once more. America licked his lips hungrily.

There North Korea laid all night, until America had fulfilled his need for a meat fix.

* * *

South Korea stirred to the sound of shoes squeezing across the shitty, cracked tile floor of the kitchenette. He bolted out of bed and darted into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

"Uhhh, South?" America called. "Southie? I saw you run to the bathroom, you good?"

Nevermind that it reminded him of something he wanted to forget. He was kinda busy putting up a chicken cookie jar on a shelf he installed in the kitchenette.

"Oh! Ame!" South Korea laughed, peeking out the bathroom door. "I thought you were an intruder!"

America couldn't resist chuckling. South's reaction was hilarious, especially considering that there wasn't anything to steal. Well, there was, but just ikea furniture and decorations that he bought for the sad studio. "Southie, there wouldn't be much to steal."

South Korea frowned. Then he realized that America had just furnished his home. "...Ame. Oh, my god."

"What's wrong?"

"Thank you. So much."

"Oh.. uh.." America was a little caught off guard. "You're welcome."

"You didn't have to—"

"I kinda did."

South Korea skittered over to America and engulfed him into a hug.

America blinked, shocked by his boldness but certainly not pushing him away. South was considerably shorter than him, much like Perú was.

In fact, everything about him reminded him of Perú. The trusting attitude, the general joyfulness, his height, his mannerisms... Lord, it all reminded him of Perú. All of him was so much like the boy he loved with his whole being.

He had to keep him from finding out. The American wrapped his arms around South in return with a smile.

"I can't help but feel guilty, though. This had to have cost a lot. Here, let's work out a plan for me to pay you back." South Korea pulled away from the embrace. He hurried over to the fridge to pull out some eggs. "I like my eggs poached, what about you?"

"Oh, no, no, I make enough money in two months to gain back what I spent." America reassured him, holding up his hands, a sign to show that there's no harm in it. America wasn't one to share his wages, but he did make quite a bit, enough to put him in the more than comfortable category.

No. Don't think about it. "Uh, I like mine the same."

"...We work for the same company and only one of us is making a living wage. To be fair, I'm at the bottom. Aha," South Korea feigned laughter and got to work on the eggs. "The plates are in that cabinet. Grab two?"

"I make more than a living wage. What the fuck is going on here?" America huffed, reaching into the cabinet, grabbing two plates and setting them down onto the counter beside South Korea. "What's your position?"

"Bottom? Why do you ask?"

Oh, shit.

"Wait, you meant at work. Ahahah! Sorry— I'm an agent. The same thing you do."

"That's just.. unfair," America deadpanned. "You do the same amount of work that I do, and you're paid less?"

"Yeah, well, life's unfair. North always said that."

"Not if I can help it. I'm gonna make UN give you a raise."

"Are you sure?" He asked, turning around to crack an egg and drop it into the boiling water.

"Positive. If I can do something about it, I'll fucking do it."

"...Thank you."

"Of course. Fair is what keeps people happy."

South Korea removed the now poached egg from the water and placed it gingerly on a plate. He passed the plate to America. "Here you go. A token of my appreciation."

America took the plate from the much smaller Korean, smiling down at him.

"Thank you." he said, his voice sounding slightly low due to his sleepiness. Although he wasn't too hungry, thanks to having a stomachful of North Korea, he took the plate nonetheless and began to gorge himself on the egg.

"Have you slept? You can take the bed for a few hours and I can call a cab for you to get home."

"I slept on the couch for an hour. I'm fine."

"Are you being honest? Or did you stay up all night filling my home with furniture?"

"From midnight to five. Slept at six."

"Wait, holy shit, what time is it?! I'm supposed to be in a meeting at seven!"

"It's about seven-ish. I'd guess eight. What was the meeting for?"

South Korea groaned, dropping another egg into the water. "I'm gonna go fucking apeshit. That meeting's for one of my most important clients. Victoriana López. She also happens to be my second ex-wife."

"What kinda role does she play? And I doubt she would want to do business with you, no offense."

"She's the lead in You're Going To Brazil. Big stuff," South Korea squinted. "Not every divorce ends with the two parties leaving each other's lives. Victoriana and I are on good terms."

"Shit, that one? Oh fuck, dude get dressed at the speed of light and go!"

South Korea shoved the wooden spoon into America's hand, then hurried out of the kitchen to climb into fresh clothes. He didn't bother going into the bathroom.

"Look away."

He jumped into his pants, zipped them up, then threw on his shirt.

America didn't have to be told twice, averting his gaze almost immediately and staring at a cabinet instead. He swiped his tongue over his lip, catching some egg yolk and swallowing it down. It didn't really have a taste, since the egg didn't have salt, but he would take it for now.

"Okay, you're good. Safe now," South Korea said, buttoning up his shirt with shaking hands. His fingers kept slipping, however. "America? I could use a little help over here... Sorry."

"I hope so. I don't plan on being unsafe, after all." Ahh, dad jokes. They come with age, after all. He was old enough to be quite a few people's dad, if it wasn't clear. He chuckled at South's meek request for help.

Without a word, he approached him and immediately began to push the buttons through the designated holes in the shirt for them.

South Korea looked down at America's hands. They were rough and calloused, but they weren't dirty or anything. Their most notable trait was their sheer size. Goddamn. He could cover South Korea's face and smother him if he so desired.

If only South knew what he did with those hands when he wasn't looking. They were rough and calloused, certainly, but from fighting and tearing and holding weapons. He often wore gloves to prevent people from feeling his hands, or just didn't offer handshakes at all.

He was sure that South Korea would break down if America's secret got out.

Which it won't.

For some reason, South Korea wanted to inch closer to the American. He wanted to bury himself in all that the brute was made of. But he didn't— Mostly out of respect for the grieving man, but also because he hadn't any time.

As soon as America finished buttoning his shirt for him, he scrambled to pull his phone off its charger and then make a break for the door.

"You're free to leave if you want, but if you're still hungry there's leftover pizza in the fridge!" he shouted before slamming the door behind him and hurrying onto the porch to call a cab.

The older male nodded.

"I'll keep that in mind," America straightened out his back, and waved goodbye to the fleeing South Korean. Oddly enough, he seemed... different. Like something changed in him. Maybe it was the fact that he'd spilled his problems to him and cried his heart out, or maybe because he'd gotten advice, or woke up on the right side of the bed. You can never know.

Either way, America sat himself down on the couch, silently contemplating the look in South's eye that he couldn't quite decipher.

* * *

As soon as South Korea got home, he flopped back-first onto the couch, loosening his necktie. He let out a groan, which echoed throughout the studio. He then sat upright again, grabbed the television remote and turned on the TV.

"--th Korea found dead outside his home last night. Investigation is ongoing. Now for this week's forecast!" the woman on the screen read from her script in her hands. As she said 'forecast', she gestured to a man offscreen, then the camera turned to said man.

South Korea's jaw dropped.

America, seated on the couch, had moved aside for South to get himself comfortable. He'd long relaxed into the couch, his posture slumped and pliant as his arms lay crossed on his chest. He was only half paying attention to the news, dipping in and out of focus while it played.

He froze upon hearing North's name. Straightening his posture, America focused on the television that was playing the news forecast. They'd found him, of course, it would be hard to miss a dead body. His brows creased in an effort to make it seem like he was confused, or shocked, even.

"What the fuck..?" he muttered. "I didn't like him, but dead? That's too far."

South Korea's gaze immediately shot to America. "Ame..."

America met his gaze as well. "What?"

"You did this, didn't you?" South Korea's voice cracked. He sniffled, bringing a hand to wipe his heating face.

Fuck. America's face morphed into one that was hurt, but the expression was fake. Hopefully it wasn't too obvious.

"Why are you blaming me? I didn't do anything!" He exclaimed, hurt and anger shining in his ocean blue eyes. His ears felt hot with anxiety. "I was lost in ikea for five hours! I wasn't anywhere near him!"

"How could you?! I loved him!"

"I didn't do anything!"

"You killed my brother! I'm calling the fucking cops!"

"I didn't kill anyo— Woah, woah, woah, hold up there! Just chill out here and think." America's panic quickly kicked in, holding up his hands as a mock form of surrender while he struggled to keep South Korea calm.

"Look. I hate to ask-- Did you kill Peru, too?!

America's mood did a full one-eighty. "How fucking dare you."

"Hit the nail right on the head, didn't I?!"

"No, you hit me in the gut. Low fucking blow, you son of a bitch."

"You killed him. Oh, my god. You killed both of them," South Korea pulled his phone from his pocket, then dialed 911. His finger hovered over the call button. "Have fun in prison."

America felt lead drop into the pit of his stomach. That lead was guilt, and fear. For the first time in centuries, America was scared. Terrified, even. His blue eyes glazed over with panic, darting from South's phone to his face. No. No.

Abso-fucking-lutely not.

In a flash, America had suddenly struck out and socked South Korea in the jaw, hoping to stun him as he dived for the phone in his hand. He had effectively thrown his weight onto the other whilst doing so.

South Korea cried out as America's fist met his jaw. He toppled onto the floor with America.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

America barely listened to his cries as he used his weight to press South onto the floor, freeing his hand and grabbing his phone. He pressed onto South's chest and diaphragm, effectively pushing the air out from his lungs as he gripped onto his phone and used his sheer strength to crush it in his hand.

The shards flew about, some digging into his hand, others sticking out every which way or scattering across the floor. America got off of South Korea the minute the threat was eliminated.

South Korea rolled onto his side, bringing his knees to his chest. He sobbed violently as he laid on the carpet in fetal position. "I'm sorry! I shouldn't have—"

America dropped the crushed phone. Long, heaving breaths rushed from his body, his lungs expanding and contracting as he came down from his brief fear-fueled adrenaline high. He could barely even pay attention to South's sobbing, or his begging. It was like white noise to him.

He shouldn't have. He shouldn't have done it in the first place. He should have let Perú run away. He should have let him kill him. He should have let him live. Oh, Perú.. his precious baby Perú..

"You will not tell another fucking soul," America snarled.

This was a side of America South Korea never expected to see. Were these his true colors revealing themselves? He hoped to God this was just a nightmare, that his brother was alive, that America hadn't just knocked him to the ground and threatened him.

"I won't! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

"You fucking better not!" America barked, suddenly lashing out in anger as fury burned in his eyes. The flames of anger burned like hot ash in his chest, killing every bit of him that was human and causing him pain. Guilt was a bitter fucking poison. "I will give you a fate worse than death if you even THINK of telling a single soul."

South Korea's wails filled the room. He sounded like an air raid siren on meth. His body wracked with each sob, and his throat was filling with drainage.

"I'm sorry! Don't hurt me!" his voice was hoarse.

America could swear that he could hear Perú sobbing. It sounded pained, either from physical or emotional pain, America expected either one from the poor boy, especially what he had put him through. Sniff, sob, sob, sob..

America ached to hold him. To say he was sorry. He wanted to silence those sobs in the gentlest way he could imagine, he just wanted to make it stop. Each one made his heart ache more and more, a bleeding and empty husk that made him human at one point.

But no. It wasn't Perú. He'd watched the boy die. He'd watched the light leave his eyes, he'd felt his last breath rush from his lungs.. and it was all his fault.

All your fault.

"No."

All your fault.

"Stop it."

All your fault.

"Shut up!" America cried.

"You're a monster!" South Korea squeezed himself tight, rolling back and forth on the floor. "You killed them, and you're going to kill me, too!"

"Shut up!" America snarled suddenly, pushing himself up from the ground in an effort to ground himself. Odd, isn't it? He didn't attempt to even try and reassure South. Doing so was like he was trying to talk to Perú.

"Shut up. Shut the fuck up."

"Fuck you!"

"I said, shut up!" The American roared.

South Korea curled up even tighter, his wails growing louder.

The sound was terrible. He fucking hated the sound of his wails, so high pitched and obnoxious like a fire alarm in a school. America gritted his teeth with a growl, his head snapping towards the horrible sound of South's screeches and wails.

"Shut the fuck up.." he growled as he gripped onto South, dragging him closer to his body.

"Shut the fuck up.." America gripped onto his jaw, his other arm holding him in place.

He moved South's head by the jaw to the right, before gripping it harshly with his hand and sharply drawing his hand back with a powerful movement. A sharp snap echoed through the studio.


	3. three

Ukraine hurried down the hall, dress shoes clacking against the tile floor. Their tie came untucked from their blazer and it swung back and forth with every step they took, but they paid no mind. They had a fat stack of paperwork bound together by two bulldog clips tucked under one arm, a styrofoam cup of coffee in their other hand. Just before the door to the conference room slammed shut, they caught it with their foot.

"Sorry I'm late— I wasn't sure if assistants were supposed to come and my phone was dead so I never received Japan's text!"

America reclined in his seat, the hinges of the cushioned chair squeaking and squealing as it dipped backward beneath his shifting weight. His stomach fluttered with the feel of fear for the situation of if he might fall out of it, like he'd shoved a couple of butterflies and a lizard down his throat to scratch and struggle against his insides. The thought itself was a little sickening, since leaving a live lizard or butterfly to be dissolved alive by his stomach fluids wasn't a comfortable thought, but also because he assumed that he'd come down with something.

For a while, he'd felt mildly sick to his stomach, along with dealing with migraines throughout the day of differing severity. From pounding headaches to mild strains, he was sure he'd felt them all. He wasn't too sure what the source was, but he hoped enough Advil would fix it.

He raised an eyebrow at the sudden sound of the door being caught and then flung open, and looked over to where the sound originated. America blinked at the sight of a small, slightly feminine male with a stack of papers and a cup of coffee. He averted his gaze when he had the information he needed about the younger looking male. Or... what he thought was a male. He was getting mixed signals.

America sighed. "Thankfully, you're just on time. Have a seat."

Ame looked up from his papers in front of him to motion to the seat beside him, immediately going back to his papers as the other members within the room stayed silent and statue still.

Ukraine cowered upon hearing America's voice, immediately recognizing that America was a person of authority in this office. Their coffee sloshed around in the cup and nearly spilled across the front of their shirt as they made a mad dash for the seat beside America.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—"

Despite what America said about them being right on time, Ukraine's face still burned an angry, fire engine red. Nearly late to their first meeting? Get a grip, Ukraine, they thought to themself. Get a fucking grip.

America didn't reply, simply continuing to look over the papers right in front of him. The ivory white paper had jet black ink printed onto it, contrasting starkly like night and day. Just parameters for the new movie they planned to release, and more of loans and distribution processes that would take at least a couple months' time. This one needed his signature, if he agreed.

America squinted his ocean blue eyes, scanning through the fine print for anything unreasonable. So far, nothing. Nothing that they could exploit or anything that asks too much. Hm. He'll consider, at least until this meeting is over. He slid the paper to the new boy, muttering a soft, "Review this for me and be sure to tell me if there's something I should be aware of. Your eyes are sharper than mine," and resumed waiting for the meeting to begin.

Ukraine paled. "I... I have no idea what to look for, I'm sorry. I just manage Japan's schedule and make calls."

Nonetheless, they picked up the papers with shaking hands. Stuff about the budget, the cast and crew, an explanation for a musical number at the end of the movie that personally, to Ukraine, felt pretentious and unlike Hollywood showbiz and more like New York City showbiz, but whatever.

"Be wary of buzzwords, and look for things in the fine print that may be exploitative or suspicious, and be sure to point them out," America instructed without batting an eye, pushing up his black face mask to cover more of his face. Despite the fact that nobody had pointed out his sharp teeth before, nobody made a comment. He began to doodle on a sticky note to combat boredom while the client and the main man on the team continued back and forth chit-chat to discuss parameters and what exactly they would be doing.

"I don't see anythi— Oh! Not a buzzword or anything, but the cost of the set we're using in scene 36 is way over the budget stated on the front page. There's a footnote at the bottom that talks about it. Here—"

Ukraine showed the page to the man. Lo and behold, in fine print, it stated that the agency needed to rework the budget in order to fit in the set for the scene.

"But figuring out the sets isn't our job, is it? It's up to the first assistant director to manage set work."

Just as America was finishing up the fuzz on a Chinese dragon he was doodling, his attention was caught by the assistant that he had handed the paper off to. He had asked him to do some work for him, so he hoped that it was at least good. His headache was killing him.

Sure enough, when America looked at the fine print closely, there was definitely a note about that. Rework the budget to fit the scene? Who the hell? He was both enraged and pleased at once, but not for the same reason. America's dark scowl softened.

"Good catch, kiddo," America praised him. "I'll be sure to bring it up. Your name?"

"Ukraine, but my friends call me Ukie—" Ukraine flushed even redder. "Wait, that's not very professional, is it? I'm sorry! Garrhhhhgghh... Everything is going wrong today."

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ukraine." America hummed lowly, holding down a scoff at him using his nickname. He couldn't care too much about being professional, since this meeting was much more laid back compared to the many he'd attended before. He didn't hesitate to get on with the next question. "And your pronouns?"

That Ukraine was not expecting.

"Uhm... They/them. Thank you. And you? Wait, you're America. My brother complai— talks! He talks about you all the time."

Oh. America couldn't be surprised that he was getting mixed signals. Now he had clarity, thankfully. He hummed in thanks, writing it down in swift, lightly calligraphic handwriting on a notepad. They, them, they, them.. repeat that to yourself, America. It's an adjustment, but use it right. He paused.

"Oh? I hope they're good things." The American lightly retorted, a laugh and a purr hanging on to the end of his voice as he spoke.

Ukraine's gaze darted to the ground. They studied their shoes. "Oh, God, no. I moved out here so I wouldn't have to listen to him anymore."

America scoffed softly. "Your brother must be very unbearable, hm?" He mused. "Especially if you had to move this far into the city. It's quite the commute." America went back to finishing up his tiny little Chinese dragon, adding the little whiskers to its face and adding the teeth.

"I didn't just change cities, I moved countries. My siblings live back at my father's old place in Russia. I came from there. So yeah, I came a long way to escape him."

"Wow." America deadpanned. "You really must've hated him."

America removed the sticky note from the stack and placed it just beside his stack of papers, running his thumb across the top where the adhesive would be on the other side. It stuck it to the table. "Well, I hope you enjoy your stay in the City of Angels, as we call it."

"Thank you..." Ukraine smiled to reveal slightly crooked teeth. "I think our conversation derailed. What do we do with the set work issue? I can run it up to the first assistant director if you can tell me what cubicle number."

"Cubicle six on the second row, floor twelve." America picked up his fountain pen again and wrote it down in neat and flourishing cursive, handing them the note after a moment. "Ask for Miss Rose Alvaine."

"Sure thing, Amer— sir. Sorry."

With that, Ukraine dashed off with the sticky note.

America didn't comment on them slipping up on his name, simply letting it go and allowing them to have their nerves and to let the nervousness fade from them. They were new, he needed to be a little lenient.

Within a few minutes, Ukraine returned.

"Miss Rose Alvaine is out sick, sir," they said with a tremor in their voice. "I'm sorry."

America's attention turned back to the individual he had sent off with a note about the paperwork and guidelines. He looked up from his notes and work, his blue eyes meeting to lift the new assistant's for a fleeting moment. Then he dropped his gaze to their throat. Their voice trembled and shook like a cold, anxious chihuahua.

"Not to worry. Sit down," America instructed with an even voice. "I'll deal with it myself."

Ukraine immediately did as told, returning to their seat by America. "You're nothing like Russia said you were," they said quietly.

"Elaborate on what you mean," America didn't look up from the paperwork as he switched out his ink cartridge for a blue one. He swirled the pen on a piece of paper until the ink was working and flowing correctly, and then he got to work noting what was wrong.

"I think it's best I don't."

"It wasn't a request."

Ukraine swallowed audibly. "Well... He said you were mean and bitter. And greedy. And— I don't think there's an English translation for this word, but it's like... I don't know. I can't think of the word right now."

America huffed. "I've heard that one before."

His voice was even and nonchalant.

"I'll let you decide if I fit those expectations or not."

"I don't know how much time we'll be spending together— So I'm not sure if there's anything to decide. I'm sorry if this is rude, but what do you do here? I'm so sorry, the woman who showed me around was very nice but she didn't really explain much. I had no idea you even worked here," Ukraine scratched their neck.

"According to Japan, I was assigned an assistant. It could be you," America finished off a note before setting down his pen and finally sitting straight. His shoulders squared, widening his frame to make himself look bigger and more intimidating. This was something America absolutely loved to use when around rookies. "My position is more or less deciding who goes where, what gets passed and what gets thrown in the gutter."

He lifted his gaze to their eyes.

"Think of me as a more powerful manager."

The country scooted their chair back, obviously uncomfy and intimidated. "When... When they called, they said I was Japan's assistant. Was there a mix-up?"

Fucking hell, Ukraine, they thought to themself, mind racing. You're gonna let this guy get under your skin? It's your first day. You're expected to fuck up. There's nothing to fear.

The scoot back confirmed America's feeling. Indeed, Ukraine was quite the submissive one. How sweet.

"I will have to check after the meeting. Until then, stay with Nippon."

"Alright."

* * *

America's knuckles met the fine wood of Japan's office door, making a loud knocking sound on the finely finished mahogany wood with minimalist structures but still very impressive. His shoulders rested back, his chest puffed up slightly as he awaited Japan's response, since he needed this situation figured out within the next three hours. His shift ended then, and he wasn't keen on making people overwork due to a misunderstanding on someone else's part.

Ukraine shot out of their place in the corner of the room to answer the door. They cracked it open. "Hello? Oh! Sir!"

They then turned around to face Japan.

"Ma'am, it's... America. Am I allowed to refer to him by his name? Or do I say his position? God this is hard..."

Keep it together, Ukraine! Fucking Christ on a bike. You're a stupid piece of shit, aren't you? Can't even refer to your boss right. Is he your boss? Who runs this place? Ukraine's thoughts ran a mile a minute as they awaited Japan's response.

"Just let him in," she said.

Ukraine let America inside the office.

"Mr. Washington if you insist on formalities, Ukraine," America corrected them, nodding slightly to them as a means of saying thank you. "Or just America."

He made his way to Japan's desk with long, slow strides.

"Good afternoon, Nippon," He greeted slowly. "I have some questions regarding the assistant situation." His voice was oddly collected and stern, yet soft. "It's been a bit of a headache trying to figure out on my own."

"I, too, have been confused as to who Ukraine works f— with. I've gotten mixed answers," Japan sighed, rubbing her temples with her fingers. "I've called up the head honchos at Vigor and they told me that if you require an assistant, you can take Ukraine because they'll find me a new one."

"I can certainly take them as an assistant," America reassured her in his even voice, a small pang of sympathy pricking at his insides at her stress. "I'll be sure to fix this issue soon, since this is clearly far too complicated, more so than it should be."

"Thank you, America," Japan raised her cup of coffee to her lips, a mug that read in bold red letters, I EAT ASS. She passed the mug to Ukraine upon taking her final sip. "Fetch me another cup of coffee before you go with America? I'd appreciate it."

"Yes, ma'am," Ukraine rushed to go refill the mug.

America smiled beneath his mask at the mug. "Honestly, I'm surprised that UN hasn't ridden your ass about that mug yet, or your hentai picture."

"I don't have a dick, but UN can still suck it. If I want to drink from my ass-eating mug and hang traditional Japanese art from my walls, then goddammit, I will," Japan cracked a grin.

"I'm sure he's sucked NATO off at one point." America leaned against the wall of the office, checking his nails like a high school mean girl. He tapped his foot impatiently as his headache dragged on, although light, still quite annoying. "However, the audacious nature of it is something I can side with."

"That's because they're married, America. They've been married for a decade. NATO proposed during a pitch for that show called Philbert we cancelled not too long ago. Very unprofessional to do so, but hey, NATO and UN get away with everything."

Ukraine quickly returned, hot mug of coffee in hand.

"I had no idea, but I am not surprised. Good day, Ukraine."

NATO and UN were a thing for 10 years? Well, America can't exactly ask why he didn't know, since he didn't exactly give two shits about what happened with them and had kept to himself all this time. Either way.

The smile beneath America's mask melted away as the business facade was pulled back up. "Come along, Ukraine. I have some things I need to tell you."

Ukraine perked up at the sound of America's voice. They set the mug on Japan's desk, on top of the coaster beside the titty mousepad. "Yessir."

America nodded silently to Japan before opening the office door, holding it open for the smaller assistant and then leading them down the hall. His steps were long and slow, but due to such a height difference, America slowed his steps so that the other could keep up with him. He took a right down the hall and then a left. Stopping in front of a metal elevator shaft. He pushed on the button that pointed upwards.

Ukraine followed along behind him, not daring to speed up to walk at his side. The walk to the elevator was silent.

Ukraine's thoughts went wild again.

You looked so stupid setting that mug down next to the titty mousepad. You fucking stupid piece of shit. You should've stayed in Russia with your family. It would've been safer. Less foreign. But no! You had to fly all the way out to Los Angeles, California, to get a job at Vigor agency because you thought you could amount to something. Dumbass.

America's thoughts were silenced during the wait for the elevator. It was all pleasantly silent, nothing like screeching or men arguing could be heard from down the hall today. It eased America's growing headache and took his mind off of the light pounding on his temples.

The elevator gave a light ding once the elevator had arrived, and America motioned for Ukraine to get on first before he did. Once they were both inside, he pressed a button to take them both to a floor three floors up from here.

Ukraine tucked their tie back into their blazer, finally realizing that it had gotten loose.

Oh, God. How long was that out? Stupid dumb idiot. Not only are you stupid, but you are also dumb.

Ukraine squeezed their eyes shut and ran a hand through their dark hair, biting their tongue to ground themself.

Okay, Ukie. Name some things you can see. I see America— No, not him. He's scary. What else? Uh... I see the fancy tile on the ground. The shiny buttons on the panel in front of me. My shoes. My shoelaces. Does that count? Or are they the same thing?

America folded his arms over his chest, a low but almost silent sigh heaving from his lungs as he waited for the damned metal box to take him to his floor. His blue eyes focused on the little screen in the corner of the elevator, a red light similar to an alarm clock in how it works. Hm. Interesting.

America tapped his foot against the metal flooring of the elevator as his headache pounded in his skull. Fuck. Why can't it just fucking go away? He can't take a sick day, he hasn't finished a project, but damn he was tempted to. Ame exhaled through his nose. He needed some more Advil.

Then the elevator finally reached the floor they needed to be, and the doors opened into a hallway. America motioned for Ukraine to get off before him. "After you."

Ukraine stepped into the corridor, away from the elevator doors so America could walk out too and lead the way.

America stepped out of the elevator and turned right. Silently leading Ukraine towards where they both needed to be. Once again, he had matched his steps with Ukraine's to keep them from getting too far behind.

"Tell me a little bit about yourself," America stated, the light command directed towards Ukraine as means of getting to know them.

That caught Ukraine off guard.

"You want? To know about? Me?" they tilted their head, puzzled.

"Yes, I do," America reinforced his statement with a light ring of laughter to his voice. "I believe that you are the only one I could direct the comment to?"

Ukraine chuckled sheepishly. "Well... You already know I come from Russia. I grew up in a household with twelve other children. My father was the Soviet Union— So I'm a little surprised we've never met. If we have, it was when I was a kid."

The pair made a turn.

"I attended the Russian Institute of Theater Arts in Moscow with a major in acting, which sounds stupid coming out of my mouth, since I'm an manager's assistant and not an actor. Also, acting is a bad major. My father always wanted me to do manufacturing, but Belarus said to chase my dreams. And that I did. Here I am, in California."

They made another turn.

"Uhm... I'm five foot four inches. I'm multilingual. My best friend is my cat, who I left at home with my siblings. Her name is Betonu. Russia always said that was an odd name for a cat, since it translates to concrete, but what does he know?"

America nearly froze upon hearing the name Soviet Union, but continued walking as to keep himself in a calm facade and hopefully keep Ukraine calm as well. It helped to appear harmless and serene to keep clients and employees from feeling nervous. "I don't believe that we have. I never visited Soviet after the whole Germany situation."

America held down a scoff. "He sounds like my father. Except my father is old enough to be his great-grandfather. Cat named Concrete, hm? I'm not exactly allowed to judge."

"If your father is anything like mine, then I'm very sorry," Ukraine sighed. "If he knew where I was, what I was doing, and that I'm working with you, he'd be rolling in his grave. A terrible father he was. He always favored Russia over the rest of my siblings. I remember once when we played a match of chess he kept flicking my pieces off the board because— And I quote —he wanted to prove to me that because I'm a "girl", I'll never win anything. Stupid, stupid man."

Ukraine took a deep, shaky breath.

"Sorry, I'm talking too much. Tell me about you!"

"Well, I'm sorry that you had him as a father." America's tone was softer than before, a light ring of gentleness on the end of his tone as he spoke to them. "I'm rather glad that I didn't get to know him that well."

That, America paused at. Talk about himself? Wasn't that a little vain? And he'd have to be careful. He doesn't want to come off a certain way that he doesn't want to... Oh well.

"My last name is Washington, and in human years I am technically around 45. Real years? Just shy of two and a half centuries." He sighed through his nose. "My father was the UK back in the 1700's. So Northern Ireland wasn't exactly a thing back then. Either way, we fought and I won, which was impressive back then or something."

"Ahaha, you're old enough to be my dad. I'm twenty two in human years, but I'm a little less than a century old. Wait, was that rude? The whole you being old enough to be my dad thing? I'm so sorry."

"I get it a lot." America reassured them. "And if you ask Japan, she'll sometimes call me 'Nuke Daddy'."

Ame held down a gag at the nickname.

"You might not want to know why."

"Because of Imperial Japan?"

"Mhm."

"That guy was real mean. Glad he's dead. Thanks for nuking him," Ukraine hummed. "And Japan isn't mad that you killed her father?"

"I haven't heard that before," America huffed, but with a hum. Sort of like a laugh, but with zero effort. "No, she isn't. She listened to my side of the story and gradually came to understand it."

"Japan's nice. I like her mug. And her... Posters."

"Traditional Japanese art," America reminded himself, smiling beneath his black mask. "She's nice, but underpaid. UN isn't nearly as nice to her as he is to me. Which, in and of itself, is unfair."

"You're very likable. But yes, I suppose that is unfair," is all Ukraine said to that.

"Oh? Am I now?" America finally let loose a soft chuckle, his blue eyes glinting with something slightly mischievous. "I'm honored."

Ukraine beamed at hearing America chuckle. "You have a nice laugh, too! Sorry if it's weird to bombard you with compliments."

"No, no, it's fine." America waved off their suspicions with a gentle laugh again. A gentle rosiness dusted his cheeks. "It's not something I hear every day."

"Can... Can I see your smile? Is that appropriate to ask? Sorry for apologizing so much, but I'm sorry if it's not okay for me to ask that."

America froze. His smile, and risk them getting freaked out because of his teeth? Hell no.

"I'm afraid I'll have to decline on that one."

America kept his voice even.

"All you have is my laugh and my handsome looks, is that enough for you for now?"

This time, with a light hint of a joke.

"You are very handsome. No homo."

"I'm flattered. Is that what you younger kids use to say 'not that it means anything'?"

Ukraine short circuited. "Wkdkfnddijdns— Yeah. Yessir."

"Heh," America chuckled. "It doesn't really work that well on me, but I'll take it."

"You're immune!"

"I very much am."

"I still don't know my orientation. I'd rather not put a label on it, since it's so complicated for me. Is this okay to talk about? I don't want to overstep any boundaries..."

"Consider me your safe space to talk about it." America pushed open the door to an office with a plaque that read his name and occupation, motioning for Ukraine to come inside. "I know quite a few people whom I've had to scold due to their... apprehensiveness towards the subject."

"Thank you. I appreciate that,"

Ukraine stepped into the office. Their eyes flickered about the room. A fake plant in the corner, a big desk, two chairs in front of said desk... Just like any other office.

"Well, now that we're here, what did you need to talk about?"

"Just some guidelines, what to expect, and the general code of conduct that goes for every employee." America closed his door and made his way to the swivel chair in the office, where he sat down on the cushioned piece of furniture with a huff. Opening his desk, he took out a small pill and swallowed it without water. "Have a seat."

Right then a rush of pure adrenaline shot up Ukraine's spine. A wave of dizziness came crashing over them. Fuck. Back to professionalism.

"Yes, sir."

They gingerly took a seat in one of the chairs in front of the desk.

The painkiller didn't take effect for a little while, and America's head was killing him. He wished it would hurry up already. Either way he sighed and looked Ukraine dead in the eye. "The first thing you should keep in mind is the policy for harassment towards other employees. Any harassment of all kinds under the sun is to be reported immediately to sort out the issue. Whoever it was reported to has the legal authority to carry out a punishment that they see fit."

America's voice was back to being sharp and cold, not as warm as it was during the idle conversation in the halls to get to this office. "That doesn't mean that you might hurt someone. It means that if it happens, report it. We will get the situation taken care of within a few hours' time."

"Understood. Yessir."

Ukraine refused to make eye contact, instead looking at America's nose.

"Good." He hummed. "Next, there's theft and the breaking of laws and company policy via anything within the company. No tolerance, thrown in jail. Pretty simple."

"Also understood."

"Superiors are to be respected, but that's just common sense, and it is best that you try your best to be welcoming and friendly. Not a conduct thing, but more of a tip to help you integrate with the others."

Ukraine nodded.

"And lastly, — this is literally from the book — Don't comment on Japan's office decorations or complain to anyone." America sighed. "It's happened far too many times."

Ukraine bit their lip, swallowing a giggle. "Y... Yessir."

"It's okay, you can laugh."

Ukraine burst into a fit of giggles.

America couldn't keep his own straight face and let a light laugh escape from him too. "HR sure got tired of hearing the variants for Titty Mousepad, hm?"

Ukraine couldn't even begin to respond. They doubled over, arms wrapped around themself as they cackled.

Fuck. America couldn't even keep his laughter in anymore. He just burst into a fit of low, guttural laughs at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation and how Japan managed to single handedly finesse her way out of being talked to by HR for her office decorations.

Eventually, the pair calmed themselves. Every now and then, a very not well restrained giggle escaped from Ukraine's lips, but otherwise, their laughs had ceased.

"And that's it. That is all I have for you." America concluded, standing from his seat to make his way towards the door. "Since my shift is almost over, and I don't have many things for you to do, you're free to go." America unlocked his office door. "If you have any questions, you may ask me now or email me tonight."

"Wait... Why was the door locked?"

"It locks automatically."

"Oh."

* * *

America leaned against the wall just outside of the break room, one hand shoved into his pocket while the other held up his steaming cup of coffee in a white styrofoam cup. The dark liquid tasted bitter and almost like nothing, but it had a light lingering hint of something else that America couldn't quite place his finger on. Either way, he still lifted it up to his lips, his mask moved down so that he could drink from it.

He lingered outside of it rather than in because it was a little tactic of his to keep an eye on his employees without having to worry about them knowing he's there. It helped him catch things before they escalated.

From what he knew, there was a human in there by the name of Dean. Dean had some problems in the past, so he had a habit of keeping an eye on him.

Ukraine was minding their own business at the coffee machine, pouring in the grounds, when Dean showed up.

"Hey."

"...Hey?"

America groaned internally. Here we go.

"I see you finally broke down and got those breast implants," Dean propped himself up against the counter, looking Ukraine up and down.

"I— What?" Ukraine froze. They donned a deer-in-headlights look on their paled face.

"You heard me."

"I'm not a... You shouldn't even be looking there," Ukraine set down the spoon they used to shovel coffee grounds into the machine and folded their arms across their chest, suddenly self-conscious.

America felt weight drop into the pit of his stomach the moment Dean spoke. It was certainly gross, of course, but not a punishable offense. Which was the sad part. Either way, America sipped his coffee, listening intently to the conversation that continued on.

Why was Dean even looking there in the first place? Good question. Ukraine had just started to work here, they probably had close to no affiliation with this asshole.

"Let me just—"

Dean reached for Ukraine, who immediately smacked his hand with a snarl.

"I don't know who you think you are, coming up to me and then commenting on my body before trying to grope me, but that shit will not fly."

Oh hell no. America didn't even bother to pull his mask up as he tossed his coffee into the nearby trash can. Just as Ukraine had said, this shit wouldn't fly. He, instead, waited by the door frame, looking into the break room with a cold look on his face. America pulled his mask up.

Now to wait for him to try again.

With that, Dean went at Ukraine. Ukraine screamed.

"Dean!" America snarled, quite loudly too.

Dean's gaze shot to the doorway where America stood. His brow furrowed. He had Ukraine pinned to the wall by their shoulders.

"My office," America's sharp tone cut the atmosphere like a well sharpened blade straight from the whetstone. "Now."

"No, I don't think I will."

"Excuse me?"

"Excused."

America's already cold gaze became colder in an instant. If looks could kill, America would have had Dean sliced up and diced nicely to put in a human Caesar salad for him to have at lunch. Dean really was digging his grave. If that was the case, then America would be glad to fill it in for him.

The much taller and older man was in the room in a flash, approaching Dean rather quickly with a gleam in his eyes that suggested that death was certainly an option.

Dean immediately let go of Ukraine, who rushed out of the room with their face buried in their hands. High pitched wails escaped their mouth as they made a break for it.

America watched as Ukraine fled from the room, freezing on the spot as the small Slav darted down the hall to probably to go hide. Once they were out of sight, he turned his attention back to Dean. Those slightly softened blue eyes became cold again, and America stared Dean down with a glare that could kill a weak man.

"Look, it's all a big misunderstanding—" Dean tried.

"Don't even fucking think about using that bullshit excuse," America swiftly cut him off. "I've made it quite clear that you leave your fellow employees alone."

Dean crossed his arms. His leather jacket made a squeak as he did so.

"This is the third goddamn time, Dean." America hissed, his eyes narrowing. "And this time, with my assistant?"

"If it were such a big deal you would've brought it up with HR already," Dean scoffed.

"Here's the funny thing, Dean," America gave a smirk beneath his mask, and he suddenly shot out his arm to grab Dean by the collar of his leather jacket. He bent at the waist to get closer, but he still lifted the smaller male up some. "I am HR. And I can deal with it how I want."

And with that, America suddenly jerked Dean forward and turned around, dragging him by the collar just down the hall, to where the men's restroom was.

Dean thrashed about like a fish out of water, kicking and screaming and flailing his limbs around. His hands flew around his neck to pry at America's fingers, but to no avail.

America still dragged Dean off to the bathroom, his screams going unheard thanks to the soundproof offices in the halls and the blurred glass windows, if anyone was lucky to have any. He roughly kicked open the door to the washroom, continuing to drag Dean inside as the door shut. Undoing his tie with one hand, America jammed the drain to the sink and got the water running by harshly turning the knob until water started pouring out of the faucet at an alarmingly fast rate.

America lifted Dean up when the water was high enough in the sink, and he promptly kneed him in the plexus. He used the momentum from the attack to slam him into the sink, placing his head under the water in it and adjusting his hold. Since Dean was face-down in the water, America planted his elbow just above the shoulder blades, using his fist to hold Dean under. He used his knee and thigh for Dean to straddle slightly, but also to press him closer to the sink and push the air from his lungs.

Dean continued struggling against the big man, screaming into the water. Bubbles came from his mouth and nose and rose to the surface. The front of his shirt was drenched, as he was splashing the water all over the place.

"Lehhhhggghh mrhhhh goohhhh!" he screamed into the sink. He managed to catch a breath by turning his head to the side far enough for his nose to peak out the water.

America shoved his head back under, practically pressing him onto the sink with his body and using brute force to drown the life out of this man. Thankfully, since he was taking all of the splashes and water, America barely got any on himself. He continued to hold him down into it, ruthlessly hitting him in the back and pressing him against the sink to crush the living shit out of him.

After several more long, agonizing minutes of struggling and screeching, Dean went still.

America continued to press him into the sink, leaving him there in the water until he was sure that he was dead. Then, he shut off the water and dragged Dean away from the sink, then into a stall and propped him up on a toilet seat before shutting it. These were cheesy doors, so they happened to be very easy to lock 'on accident'. The click sound was an easy indicator that it had locked from how hard America slammed the door.

Then he went back to the sink and removed his tie from it, finally allowing for the water to drain. He tossed the tie out, he had plenty more at home.

America was out of the bathroom and down the hall in a flash, moving to get to his office in a speedy manner, since he assumed that was where Ukraine had run off to.

At first, Ukraine was nowhere to be found. But the sound of soft sobbing guided America to his desk, where Ukraine was curled up in fetal position beneath.

Their gaze flickered up to America upon hearing his footsteps.

"Don't touch me! Don't touch me!" they wailed.

Their desperation made America feel a stab of pain in his gut. They sounded so panicked and so scared, it made him hurt. His previously cold blue eyes softened.

"It's just me." America soothed them gently, not moving from his spot. He'd dealt with hysterical people more than once, so he knew his way around the situation now. "Dean isn't here, and he won't be anymore."

He kept his voice low, quiet. Raising it was never a good idea in this situation. All it needef was very tentative care and a soft tone.

"I thought he was going to—"

Ukraine went silent, with the exception of a few hiccups that wracked their body.

"I can't go through that again. I can't."

"You won't have to." America reassured them, bending down slowly and settling into a sitting position on the floor. "He won't be here anymore. I'll be sure to bring it up to NATO and UN, you won't have to go through that again."

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry...!" Ukraine cried. "Shit, I shouldn't have said that. Nobody knows about that. Fuck."

"Ukraine, deep breaths." Ame gently instructed, holding up his hands in front of him, palms facing Ukraine, to show he had nothing in his hands. A show of harmlessness. "You don't need to apologize. You are not in the wrong."

Ukraine did as they were told, taking a deep, shaky inhale before letting it go with a huff. They shut their eyes, then opened them again to look at America.

"This is a bit unprofessional, isn't it?" they tried to crack a joke, but it was obvious they were still terrified. Their shaking body gave it away.

It clearly worked, since America chuckled gently at the little remark and smiled underneath his black mask.

"Quite." He chuckled. "I'm coaxing my sobbing assistant out from under my desk and sitting on the floor, if UN saw me now he would certainly hand my ass to me."

"Can... Can I see you smile now?"

America hesitated, a bit nervous about it. They were rather shaken up at the moment, he didn't need them to be even more spooked. "Once you've calmed down enough, I'll show you."

"What? Please."

"You'll see why."

"Do you still have braces?"

"Nope."

"I grew up in the Soviet Union. There's no way your teeth can be worse than mine, si— America," Ukraine smiled, tugging at their lips with their fingers to reveal their own crooked teeth.

America sighed. "Fine."

He caved, pulling down his black mask to reveal a scar over his lip, albeit a small one. He took a deep breath and gave Ukraine a soft smile, his lips pulling back to reveal his pearly white, triangular and sharp shark-like teeth.

"Is that what you were so scared to show me? Shark teeth?" Ukraine slowly crawled out from under the desk. "This feels like a good excuse to hug you. May I?"

America's smile melted off his face as he huffed, but nodded.

"Go ahead."

He opened his arms to them, an open invitation to embrace the much larger male who was almost twenty four years their senior.

"I feel like you don't want me to. I won't, if that's how you feel about it. I understand what it's like for someone to cross your boundaries, so I would never do the same to you."

America forced an image out of his head before he could draw two and two together.

"I don't mind, really. You're free to." America wasn't exactly declining the hug. He did want it, but he wasn't sure if it was okay with his assistant. He really wanted to be sure that they were okay with it, because he didn't mind.

With that, Ukraine scooted over on their knees to engulf America into an embrace. As they nestled their face into America's shoulder, they noted the faint scent of cigarettes and pine.

"You smell good."

Their voice was slightly muffled from their mouth being smashed up against America's shoulder.

America's arms wrapped around his much smaller assistant, holding their body close to his in a loose hug. He could feel them burrow their face into his shoulder, a light rose dusting his cheeks at the feel of their closeness. Not that he minded, of course, he consented to this, but it was still an odd feeling. He wasn't used to it. Even after all the time he's had to adjust.

America's face was coated a shade of red at their muffled comment.

"Unprofessional, Ukraine." America jokingly retorted.

Ukraine giggled against America's shoulder, their laugh sending vibrations up his neck.

"Shush, big boy."

Ukraine wasn't sure if they meant it in a flirtatious way, but before they even thought about it, the words left their mouth. They flushed red.

"I am so sorry—"

America snickered, a small snort escaping him at the nickname that used to be used on him by someone he never wanted to remember. He found it funny.

"Pfft, don't apologize, it was funny." America said through laughs, his shoulders shaking and chest rumbling from his voice. "Just.. don't use it in front of Japan."

"What? Will she pitch a hentai about us to the production team and get us fired?"

"Not get us fired, but never let us live it down."

Ukraine giggled again, pulling away from America. "Thank you. I feel a little better."

"I'm glad. I'm supposed to return the favor for my assistant looking out for me, aren't I?" America gave them a small smile before pulling his mask up. "If you would like, I can get you to go on sick leave."

"No, no, it's okay. I should still do my job," Ukraine clambered to their feet, holding onto the side of the desk for support. "What else do we have to do today? I heard they start recording You're Going To Brazil this afternoon. Is there anything we have to do?"

"Do you feel like you can still do your job?" America asked, pushing himself up from his position on the floor and standing straight once more. "We just supply the money and cover costs. We don't have to do anything on the set."

"Awh, I was hoping to visit the set," Ukraine frowned. "And yeah. I got this. I just think I'll keep away from the break room for a little bit. Are you okay with fetching your own coffee for a few days?"

"I don't drink coffee unless I want a Jack Daniels and I'm on the job." America reached into his drawers and pulled out a pill. "I'll be okay."

Ukraine's lips curled into a smile. "Forgive my redundancy, but like I said a few days ago, Russia was so wrong about you."

"Russia," America began, pulling down his mask to drop the pill into his mouth and swallow it dry. "Is wrong about a lot of things. Like how his country is doing."

"You're not..." Ukraine raised a thin brow. "You're not abusing drugs on the job, are you?"

"Nope. It's Advil. I use it for headaches and migraines."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound accusatory. Did I use that word right? I've always wanted to say it. It's a fun word. Rolls off the tongue."

"You used it right, you're fine." America chuckled. "Technically, we're all druggies. Caffeine is a drug, and we all drink coffee."

"My favorite stimulant! Makes me anxious, though."

"Caffeine doesn't affect me that much. It satiates the urge for something strong, but it's got no effect."

Ukraine made yet another face of concern. "You're not an alcoholic, right? Wait, that's personal— So sorry, sir."

"No, I'm not an alcoholic. I'm just sick of a lot of people's shit."

"I'm glad. I don't want my boss dying of cirrhosis," Ukraine's expression returned to a subtle smile. They rubbed their eye with a knuckle, looking up at the ceiling.

"I don't think I'd like to die just yet. I have things to do and unfinished business." America remarked, sighing at the slight pain of his headache fading away. "Anyways, my shift is about to end. Be safe, I'll see you tomorrow."

America grabbed his laptop bag and a small stack of papers from his desk, waving goodbye to Ukraine and then exiting his office to go home and have dinner.

Ukraine sighed before grabbing their purse and then heading out the door.

* * *

America was reclined in his office chair, his feet kicked up onto his desk as he stared up at the ceiling of his office. He had no idea as to where Ukraine was, he finished all his paperwork for the week, and he had covered his desk in origami swans, cranes, and doves in a desperate attempt to keep himself from being bored.

He chewed on his lip, despite it bleeding, and continued to fold a dove then tossed it onto the pile of folded birds that spilled over the sides of his desk.

Ukraine came bursting into the office, swinging the door wide open with an empty cup of coffee in hand. The coffee was spilt all over the front of Ukraine's shirt, their hair was a disheveled, knotted mess, and their shoes were on the wrong feet.

"Sir, I am so sorry— I can explain! I slept through my alarm because I stayed up most of the night thinking about what happened in the break room and I woke up at eleven because my sister called. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. It won't ever happen again, I promise!"

And with that, they broke down crying. Christ.

America nearly jumped out of his own skin at his door being swung open so suddenly, his head snapping towards the direction of where it was and who kicked it open. Surprise surprise, it was his assistant. Ukraine. They looked to be the living epitome of waking up on the wrong side of the bed, and they seemed distressed.

America softened.

"Oh, Ukraine," He sighed, sweeping the paper birds off of his desk and pushing back, getting up and making his way to his disheveled assistant.

"I told you that you could take a sick leave, but please take some deep breaths. Slowly."

"I'm sorry! It— I'm sorry!" They repeated their apologies over and over again, grabbing at their hair and giving their short locks a tug.

"Ukraine, no." America's soft but stern voice commanded, grabbing at his assistant's wrists and moving them away from their face.

This felt like something he didn't want to remember... at all. It felt like when he moved Perú's hands away from his head after he found out...

Ukraine looked up at America, bleary eyes puffy and red. He sniffled and worried his bottom lip with his teeth. "I... I'm sorry, sir. Please. It won't ever happen again."

America removed his hands from their wrists, ceasing the physical contact from them in an instinctual move to make sure they were okay and to keep them safe. But still, he sighed.

"I know it won't. Take care of yourself, Ukraine." He was gently ordering them to do so. "Take time for yourself and make sure that you're ready, for Christ's sake."

Ukraine took a few deep, unsteady breaths through parted lips. Their eyes shut for a moment, presumably to suppress another round of tears.

"Okay, okay..."

"Breathe in... breathe out." America instructed, inhaling and puffing out his chest before exhaling in an effort to help Ukraine.

Ukraine did as instructed. Eventually, their cries were reduced to mere sniffles and the occasional hiccup.

After a moment of the breathing exercises with Ukraine, America invited them to sit down at his desk to talk it out. "Would you like to sit down? I can get you a coffee if you'd like one."

Ukraine took a seat in one of the chairs in front of America's desk. Their head lolled back as they huffed. "I'll pass on the coffee... Thank you, though."

"Mhm." America hummed, taking a seat in his chair across from Ukraine. Beneath some of the billions of birds he made, he had his notepad and his fountain pen, where he looked at it once more and found that everything he could do was scratched out and already finished. Ame sighed, bored.

"I made a metric fuckton of these damn birds.." He muttered.

"They're pretty..." Ukraine sat upright, picked one up and cradled it in their hand. "Teach me how to make one?"

"There are three kinds." America stated. "Choose one, and I'll teach you."

"Whichever is easiest."

"Swan it is."

Ukraine smiled, setting down the origami bird.

America passed them a piece of paper, him getting one for himself to show Ukraine what to do along the way. He'd folded the square piece of paper in half and then unfolded it, bringing one side to the middle of the page and lining up the edge with the crease. He did the same with the other side, and then showed Ukraine.

Ukraine followed along, folding the paper like America did.

America then repeated the action again on both sides to the folded paper, bending the needle like end of it at the halfway point and proceeding to press it against the other side of the paper and fold it in half. He pulled up the needle-like part and then folded the tip to look like a beak. Voila, a swan.

"Wait, can you repeat what you just did? Slower?"

"Yeah, sure." America unfolded the swan a little, going over the steps slower this time.

Ukraine did it with him. Tada! They held up their swan, beaming.

America smiled beneath his mask. "There ya go. You've got a swan now." He praised them softly, setting his own swan on the surface of the desk.

"I like birds. Especially nightingales. They sing such beautiful songs."

"Personally, I adore eagles." America sighed, his posture slouching just a little. "They are so majestic and powerful... Such beautiful creatures."

"There was a huge hawk outside my apartment complex when I came home last night!" Ukraine's eyes seemed to twinkle. "It was really chubby. Thicc bird."

"Who's been feeding them?" America seemed a little miffed at the thought of an overweight bird, like he had to protect it at all costs. "Birds shouldn't be chubby, it's very detrimental to their health."

"I've never seen anyone feeding the birds there. I haven't seen any birds there, for that matter. That was the first time I saw a bird here other than a pigeon."

"Ah." he hummed. "I see. Well, keep an eye on the hawk for a little while. If it hasn't flown in a couple of days, get in a wildlife expert."

America seemed very passionate about birds, and if Ukraine was being honest, they found that sort of— no, very —attractive. Wait, Ukraine, that's your boss. Don't think shit like that. Stupid gay fucker. Beside, he's twice your age. He's old enough to be your dad, for Christ's sake!

Ukraine seemed to bluescreen as they drowned in their racing thoughts.

America noticed his assistant's distant look in their eyes, their body seated in front of him but their mind completely elsewhere. Their cheeks seemed to be dusted with rose, as if thinking of something that wasn't exactly safe for work, and he decided to play a game with his assistant. He placed one crane on their head, another near their elbow, and a swan on their shoulder, and continued on as their lost look seemed to never fade from their eyes.

A few moments passed.

Ukraine suddenly stirred from their trance, their face a burning red. They looked like a tomato.

"Wh? Birds?" they blurted as a paper crane fell off their head.

America couldn't help but snicker quietly.

"How was your trip to Hawaii?" He asked his assistant, who was swamped in paper birds.

Ukraine's hand flew over their mouth and hit their face with a "pop". Their gaze flickered all over the room as they looked everywhere but at America.

"Uhm... Uh—"

"Something happen there?"

"UHM—"

"C'mon, you're killing me here. Penny for your thoughts?"

Ukraine began picking up the paper birds and setting them on the desk. No. No more thoughts about being sexually involved with your boss. Okay, but imagine him fucking you into the desk— Shut up!

Ukraine flicked their own forehead in an attempt to silence their brain.

"Actually, I think I'll let you keep them for now."

That was America's way of dropping the subject.

"Next time, be sure to email me in advance before going on vacation, mkay?" He joked lightly, moving some of the birds away from Ukraine so that they had some breathing room.

"I'm sorry, sir—"

Imagine calling him sir in bed, Ukraine's mind went.

You could put out the fires on the American west coast with Ukraine's panties right now.

"You're fine." America waved them off. "I'll let you off easy this time."

This time. Oh, boy. Imagine being punished by your boss for daydreaming about him railing you.

Ukraine dismissed the thought before they could gush over it. "Thank you."

"No problem. Now, since I've got nothing to do, and you don't either (trust him, he checked), consider it my treat that I let ya go ahead and take the day off. You need it, anyway."

"W... Wou... D..." Ukraine stumbled over their words like a drunken man trying to cross a busy street, but the street was covered in solo cups filled with water and the street was also on fire. Yes, shitty metaphor. But that was how Ukraine felt.

"Hm?" America hummed. "Something you need?"

He looked over his shoulder to them as he lifted up his chair, setting it down a few feet away to properly sweep up all his paper birds.

"Would..." Ukraine finally managed the first word. They gulped. God, when did it get so hot in this office? "Would you like... To get out of here?"

America's expression became confused as he furrowed his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

Ukraine flushed more furiously than they ever had in their life. "I meant like, would you like to go get something to eat? It's bit early to go grab a drink, so maybe food—"

Oh. Ooooooh.

The American chuckled. "Oh. Of course, I'm down for it. I don't mind."

Ukraine then proceeded to fucking die. The following noise that came from their mouth could only be described as one of those cat pianos falling off a building, but the cat piano was reprogrammed to sound like a dying goose.

America broke out into a snicker, pushing away some paper cranes from his path with his foot. They didn't really stand a chance against the fine material of his dress shoes. "Ukraine? You okay?"

"Y-Yeah!" Ukraine flashed him a smile. "Just. Distracted."

"Ah." He hummed. "Well, is there any place you have in mind at the moment? I'm not particularly picky."

"I actually— I saw a Russian place on the way here. Reminded me of home, and I'd like to go. Have you seen it? It's called Stolovaya."

"Oh, Stolovaya is great." America sighed, placing a few more cranes on the desk as he sighed at the thought of the food from there. "I may hate Russia's guts, but his food is wonderful."

"Hating him won't make him suck any less," Ukraine sighed, helping America sweep up the birds. "And it's a privilege to love. Love at every opportunity."

If it was a privilege to love, America sure was getting that privilege taken away way too often. He can't exactly love. He's tried it so many times, over, and over, and over again. It always managed to slap him in the face and punch him in the gut every single time, and it killed him to feel it. It hurt so damn bad.

"Yeah, well, it's easier said than done."

"Loving someone doesn't mean you have to like them. I love my brother and my dad, but they're both pieces of shit and I don't like them."

"I'd say there's a distinct difference between loving someone and tolerating the thought of them."

"Welp, I'd say I still love them. And I tolerate them. It's a dialectic."

"Whatever ya say," America tapped his foot as he placed the last dove delicately onto the pile of birds.

* * *

Ukraine lifted up the menu. The entire thing was printed in Russian. They looked at America.

America was reading his own menu without a problem, looking over the dishes that were printed to see what he wanted and what looked good. He looked up from his menu to find Ukraine, his assistant, giving him a look. He smiled beneath the mask.

"Я свободно владею, Украина."* He smugly remarked. "Я прекрасно могу заказать еду."

(I'm fluent, Ukraine. I can order food just fine.)

"Симпатичний," Ukraine replied not in Russian, but in Ukrainian.

(Cute.)

"Ви любите кидати мені виклик, чи не так?"

(You love to challenge me, don't you?)

Ukraine paled.

America chuckled at their expression. "They love having someone who knows how to say 'fuck your life and your mother' in more than two languages."

Ukraine did a spit take. They proceeded to cover their mouth, holding back laughter.

The older American snickered at their spit take, holding down boisterous laughter.

"Full offense, but English is the shittiest language. I started taking it back in high school, then I quit because it drove me nuts. Then because I got into acting, I realized I had to learn it if I wanted to take jobs outside of Eastern Europe... So fuck your stupid language. I hate that there's no way around it. It's phonetically inconsistent and the grammar rules? They don't make sense."

"I didn't make it up." America reminded them, chuckling softly but slightly miffed. "It's not even my mother tongue, but I do enjoy the versatility."

"Versatility? Ukrainian is better with that. Rule thirty-four of the Ukrainian language— if it exists, there is a slang word for it."

"Same with English, if you search heard enough."

Ukraine smiled.

"I could speak full hillbilly, if necessary. From the east to west coast, northern to southern border, I know every dialect." He scoffed. "Heck, y'all'd've gotten the same result if you were me."

"Your country has such diversity!" Ukraine made an expression of interest. "But— I feel like if I went somewhere, say, Texas? I wouldn't understand a word. I can't even understand people here sometimes. Everyone talks so fast."

"You're mistaking Texas for New York, Ukraine." America corrected them. "New Yorkers speak fast, Texans just have a set of words within their dialect to make speech easier and a hint of an accent. We cut out sounds to make it easier to speak, but we don't actually talk fast."

"When people are speaking a language you have trouble understanding, it always seems like they're speaking fast. And boy, oh boy, I'm glad I decided not to go on Broadway."

"Even I can't understand people on Broadway. Believe me, I've tried."

Ukraine let out a laugh. "I'm glad I'm not alone."

"You're far from alone. I know plenty of people just like you and I." America took a sip of his water. "And let's be honest, the baseball game announcers are terrifying."

America immediately begins to imitate a baseball announcer's voice, speaking at the speed of light. "Robinson's coming into left field, a sharp turn and oh, it's possible he'll get the ball, it's comin, it's comin, and he caught the ball!"

Ukraine snorted, heat rising to their cheeks. A sense of humor? Now that was hot. They idly played with their cutlery, clanking the fork against the spoon.

"I sometimes can't even process what they say until it's already happened, a whole minute later." America admitted, sighing. "They're a different breed."

"What's your favorite competitive thing? Like, a sport or something. I liked ballet growing up. My father forced my siblings and I into it, but I always secretly enjoyed it. Russia liked it, too, but don't tell him I told you."

"For a little while, it was dumping tea into a harbor. Every ten pounds was a sliver of money to buy shit. Then, it was swing dancing, then waltzing, then.. I think soccer." He listed them on his fingers, counting over and over again to make sure he didn't miss one. "Maybe football? I definitely did baseball somewhere."

A smile tugged Ukraine's lips upward. A little bit of everything? Yup, this was the one.

"A truly well-rounded man."

Warmth dusted America's cheeks. "Oh, hardly. I'm... far from that," a nervous, slightly shy chuckle emitted from the man.

"I beg to differ."

"Certainly not." It was America's way of not being able to take a compliment. He didn't get them very often. "It's.. uh.. I've got some parts to me that aren't great, but don't we all?"

"Oh, America. Don't be silly. You're a light at the end of a deep, hopeless tunnel. And the not very nice parts make you more well-rounded. Besides, perfect people suck."

Shit. Again.

America felt a shiver roll down his spine. No. No. No no no no no no no no no. No. Please, don't. Not this again..

"Yeah, yeah... Especially people who think they're perfect. Fuckin' twats.."

"Cough cough... Soviet... Cough, cough."

"Cough, New Zealand, Canada, Australia, France, Britain... Cough."

"New... Zealand?"

"Oh. Yeah, I did some real deep digging on New Zealand, apparently a country.. girl.. something, who died so suddenly and mysteriously. She was just a pile of bones in her bed."

"Then... It feels a little mean to call her stuck-up."

"She was, apparently. Pissed something off with her selfishness and the stick up her ass, then poof! She was gone."

"Stick up the ass?" Ukraine tilted their head. "That's something I've never heard before."

"Yep. It's one way to say that someone is on a high horse, and they need to be knocked off it soon."

Ukraine giggled. "My favorite English metaphor. There's a Russian figure of speech— Russia says it all the time about me. There's a black sheep in every family."

"I didn't have the privilege of being a sheep. I was like a wolf out of the flock of sheep that was my family." America sighed. "They hated me, and they feared me."

"I'm sorry to hear that—," Ukraine's eyes flickered down to America's hands.

America's hands were intertwined and locked tightly together, squeezing hard as he spoke. His knuckles grew whiter as time dragged on, but he eventually loosened up.

"Eh, no worries." He brushed them off. "I lost contact with them long ago. Hell, they don't even know I exist. And I would rather keep it that way."

"What could be so bad about you that they— Damn. I'm sorry."

"Hm?" America hummed. "What were you gonna say?"

"Nothing, just how surprised I was."

"I see. Well, there isn't much to be surprised about." He squeezed his hands together once more. "I was their problem child. Their mistake. And I had the guts to say that I was a living being too. Thus... broke out a war."

"Oh," Ukraine said.

"But yeah. They weren't the best people, of course, but I'm glad they're gone. They can't pester me anymore."

"Awh. Well, I'm glad they can't bother you anymore," Ukraine gave him a toothless smile, thin lips curled upwards.

"I am more than glad to say that I agree." America pulled down his mask to drink some of his water. Without bothering much to pull his mask up, he continued. "How are you and your siblings doing, last you heard of em?"

"Belarus and I are on decent terms. She called me a few days ago, said she landed herself a place in medical school," Ukraine's smile grew as they thought about their sister. "She's always wanted to be a nurse. Kazakhstan and I are... Okay? We haven't spoken since he moved out. Estonia is kind of a stuck-up. She only cares about Finland. Lithuania is cool— When it comes to Russia and I's situation, she supports my side. And you know how it is with Russia. The rest are okay."

"Pfft. Typical Estonia." He snickered, pulling his mask up to make sure nobody saw his teeth. "I'm glad Belarus got into medical school."

America couldn't help but smile.

"Practicing medicine, even while it's changing so drastically, is a tricky practice. I gotta say, she's earned my respect."

"I'd let her know, but she doesn't like you very much. None of my siblings do, really. I can't see why! Sure, your political climate is rather... Questionable, at the moment. But you, yourself, are so nice," Ukraine folded their arms across their chest. "And don't worry, America, I like your teeth."

"Eh... Opinions of those who don't care for me don't bother me. So, I'm fine with her not wanting to associate with me."

America brushed it off like water on a duck's back. He really didn't care too much about what they had to say, hm?

"I know, I know you do, but everyone else might not." He sighed as he pulled it down. "People like to talk when they find something unusual. And they won't shut up for years."

"I see," Ukraine sighed. They took a sip of their water. "You know, I was hoping you wouldn't understand the menu. That way, I'd have to translate for you, and I'd get to impress you."

"You impress me enough, Ukraine." America soothed them with a smile, doing his best to not show too much teeth so someone wouldn't try and snap a picture. "It's quite impressive that you can still deal with me and be a kid of Sovi's. Personally, I think that's quite the feat."

"Sovi?" Ukraine giggled.

"I called him that when he was around eighteen to piss him off."

Ukraine's giggles turned into a cackle. In between laughs, they managed, "When he was alive, we were supposed to call him Papa, but now we call him что вещь."

(That thing.)

"Thing? Wow, you really pissed on his grave there, huh?" The American male managed through low laughs, his hand covering his mouth as he did so.

"I actually want to do that, but he's cremated. He wanted his ashes spread across your driveway, but Russia wants to keep them."

"I think I'd power wash them off by accident, to be honest."

America paused.

"Well... Accident is too nice."

"And I don't even have a driveway... It's literally just an equine trail that leads to the barn at the back of my house. So he'd just get horse shit on him."

Tears welled in Ukraine's eyes. Right as they were about to say something, the waiter approached the table and greeted the two.

America greeted them gently in Russian, pulling his mask up as he sat straight and looked to Ukraine, as if asking them if they were ready to order.

Ukraine nodded, then told the waiter their order. Borscht. The waiter then turned to America.

America simply ordered some blini for the time being, since he didn't want a mainly meat or vegetable dish.

Ukraine passed their menu to the waiter, who gingerly took it from them.

America slid the menu across the table with one finger to the waiter, nodding softly as a means of thanks.

"So tell me more about you?" Ukraine started as soon as the waiter left.

"There... isn't that much to know about me, honestly." America laughed sheepishly, pulling down his mask. "You're free to ask me anything you'd like, though."

"What's your favorite color?"

"Blue."

"Really? That's my second favorite!"

"Mhm. Blue is very pretty. I just love it so much.." He sighed. "Next up is a light shade of eggshell white."

"Those are nice colors. Uh... What's your favorite food?"

Human meat.

"Ribs."

"What about... Favorite song?"

"Oh shit, I— Hmm..." America began to think, but as hard as he tried, it seemed like every song he had ever heard he had forgotten. "Honestly, something from Glass Animals or the Beatles."

"Do..." Ukraine paused, uncertain. "Do you have a partner?"

"I... Used to."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked that."

"No! No, it's okay. It's fine, I'm over it."

Liar.

"Uhm. What is your opinion on—" Ukraine's phone rang. They pulled it out of their pocket to read the contact name. Belarus. "Hold on, I have to take this."

"Take your time!" America reassured them with a smile, pulling up his mask as he waited patiently for Ukraine to return. He was getting rather curious for the questions that they had.

The phone call was quick.

Ukraine sighed heavily, setting their phone down on the table. "Russia's got alcohol poisoning."

"What?" the American appeared to be shocked, but he shook his head. "Do you need any help? Do you have to fly out to Russia or anything?"

"No, it's fine. Belarus wants me to fly out there... This isn't the first time."

"I... Can't say that I'm surprised." America sighed, shaking his head. "Go ahead and fly out there just in case something does happen."

"Alright. I'll go first thing tomorrow morning."

"Do you want me to accompany you to the airport? It's alright if you don't."

"Only if you want to," Ukraine picked up their phone again, opened up Google and searched for a flight to Russia. "I'll come back and resume work as soon as I can."

"You don't have to resume work immediately. Be sure to let me know if things go sideways so I can give you time, if you need it."

"Thank you, America."

The pair's food arrived.

"Of course."* He replied through the mask, watching the food on the table with eyes that were similar to a wolf staring at a rabbit. *"I'm starved, lord this smells good."

"Somebody's excited," Ukraine cracked a grin.

"What? Food is good." America shoved a bite of his Russian pancakes into his mouth and chewed it up. He swallowed it down and repeated the process, tearing through his food quickly.

Ukraine giggled, then spooned a little bit of borscht into their mouth. "Hot!" they lifted their napkin to their mouth, panting.

America paused from his eating, looking like a puppy that had woken up from a nap at the sound of its owner calling it. He looked to Ukraine and laughed, holding his napkin up to his mouth just in case. He swallowed the mouthful he had, warning Ukie to be careful with their food.

Awh, that was cute, Ukraine thought. No! No gay thoughts about your boss! Bad Ukie!

Ukraine swallowed their food, cringing as it burned their throat on the way down.

"Blow on it, silly." America teased them as he shoved more food into his greedy mouth.

Blow? Oh, my god. Ukraine's mind dove into the gutter. They flushed redder than a cherry, dropping their spoon into their borscht. The splash of hot soup on their hands yanked them out of their thoughts.

"Fuck!"

"Oh, shit—" America cursed in some language he didn't bother to acknowledge. He was quick to snatch a napkin and hand it to them, hurriedly checking if they were okay. Thankfully, no third degree burns. They were fine.

Ukraine patted their hands dry with the napkin America handed them. "Sorry, sorry... I got distracted."

"Yeah, I could tell. You went red as the USSR." He chuckled. "So, you thinkin' about your special somebody?"

"I don't—"

America raised an eyebrow, as if prodding gently to continue. He wasn't gonna interrupt, he'd wait.

"I don't have a significant other. I was thinking about somebody, yes, but..."

Ukraine flushed redder.

"Oooooohhh, I see what you mean." He nodded along. "Yeah, I understand."

"Don't say that! That means you know who I was thinking about!"

"In all honesty, I don't, but I'd assume they're hot."

"Oh, yes, he is. He's so intelligent and I find that really fucking attractive," Ukraine donned a lovey-dovey grin. "He's got the nicest smile. And he's super kind to me."

America raised an eyebrow and chuckled "Well damn. You've really set your sights on a good catch, eh?" He shoved more food into his mouth with a low hum.

"Mhm!" Ukraine giggled.

"I hope he treats you right, then, because if not, I don't take kindly to people hurting my employees."

Ukraine's face fell. "...I could tell."

"Don't worry about Dean, he'll never financially recover."

...Or physically.

Ukraine heaved a sigh. "I'm sorry, really."

"You shouldn't be sorry. I needed an excuse to fire him anyway." America sighed. "Management liked him... for whatever reason."

"Why would they...? He was gross— He smelled like rotten eggs and motor oil."

"Blegh." America gagged. "That's just gross, and it's beyond me. Thank god he's gone."

"I guess I should get going..." Ukraine sighed heavily. "I got a plane to catch at six tomorrow morning."

America nodded. "Be sure to go home and get rest. You need quite a lot of it."

The American felt some sort of protectiveness stir in him, like he had to look out for his assistant and keep them from harm's way.

"Don't drink any more coffee or tea. You'll just keep yourself up."

"I'm not sure how well I'll sleep regardless. Russia's done this so many times, but it never gets any less worrying..." Ukraine studied their shoes before looking up at America. "Thank you. I'll see you at Los Angeles International tomorrow morning? We can meet at the gate and say goodbye, if you like."

"I'll see you there." America gave them a gentle smile before pulling his mask up, covering his face and hiding his wolf teeth. The much larger American man led them towards the front of the restaurant, prompting them to follow him out to the front. "If you're okay with it, then I'm more than willing to."

With that, Ukraine hopped into their rental car. They waved America goodbye before they pulled out of the parking lot.

America waved goodbye to his assistant, pulling out his keys from his pocket and walking out to his car to drive himself home. He had an early morning tomorrow, he had to get home pretty damn soon if he wanted to get up on time. He jammed the key into the ignition, turned on the car, and pulled out of the parking lot to get home.

* * *

Ukraine was seated by the phone charging station when America caught their eye. They waved their hand wildly, which caused some strangers to peer at them with strange expressions.

America's peripheral vision caught ahold of movement, and he turned his head to look in the direction he remembered seeing it in. Immediately, he caught sights of his assistant, and he sped up his pace to get to the bench where Ukraine was sitting. He smiled beneath the mask as he stopped in front of them.

"Good morning, Ukraine." He greeted them, his voice slightly hoarse from sleep as he took a seat beside them. "Fuckers drive like crazy out here." He grumbled lowly, slipping down his mask to sip at his cup of coffee he picked up.

"Tell me about it," Ukraine gave America a mini chuckle. "I didn't sleep at all last night. I'm operating off of sheer anxiety right now."

"I don't know how I can help with that, I'm afraid." The larger of the two sighed, sipping at his coffee but then taking a large gulp. The bitter drink helped to liven up his senses and keep him sane. More sane than he really should be. Traces of a headache began to pound at his skull, America wincing at the light pain. "Usually, I would have said use sleeping pills, but those rarely help."

"You made a face. Are you okay?" Ukraine suddenly felt the compelling urge to take America's hand in theirs. "And thank you for driving out here for me."

"Yeah. Just.. headaches." He grumbled, sighing at the pain of it. "Happens all the time."

America gulped down another mouthful of coffee as he fought back the urge to rip something apart with his teeth.

"Don't mention it, it's the least I could do."

Ukraine worried their bottom lip with their teeth. "I... America. There's something I want— need —to tell you."

America's head turned so he could look them in the eye. "Okay. I'll listen."

"I— Er... Uhm..." Ukraine looked at the ground, then back up at America. "Can I just show you? You'll have to take your mask off. You'll see why."

America's eyes averted to the clock displayed on the wall, noticing that Ukraine had to start boarding in just a few moments.

"Alrighty.."" America agreed, sliding down his mask so that he could see what Ukraine had to do. He didn't exactly see why they needed his mask off.

In a flash, Ukraine grabbed America by the collar and gave him a quick peck on the lips.

Before he could even comprehend it, America felt the kiss on his lips. It was quick and gentle, but it sure sent nervous flutters into his stomach. Woah. Hoooooly shit. Wow. Okay. Uhh... How does he take this again? America appeared to be stunned for a moment, genuinely caught off guard by the sudden show of vulnerable affection. Just as he was about to say something, someone on the intercom spoke up about Ukraine's flight leaving.

"I'm madly in love with you, America!" Ukraine was already grabbing their luggage and preparing to leave. "You make me all warm and tingly inside. Nobody's ever made me feel that way. Buhbye!"

And just like that, they were gone.

...Shit, man.

Now America kind of wished they didn't have to leave for Russia.

America felt a stupidly giddy smile spread across his face, and he pulled up his mask quickly to hide it from public view. He grabbed his coffee and made his was through the airport as butterflies, lizards, and snakes all writhed around in his guts. He had plenty of time to think it over, but now that he thought of it, he didn't think that it was all that scandalous after all.


End file.
